


Parallax

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-18
Updated: 2010-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle with Wolfram & Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[parallax](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/parallax), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
**Title:** Parallax  
**Chapter:** 1/8  
**Characters:** Spike, Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** Dub-con, angst  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.  
**A/N:** Thank you to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for another awesome banner! I'll post chapter 2 Friday morning California time and the remainder of the chapters when I return to town on Monday. Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/profile)[**plot_wout_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/) .   


____spacer____

_   
**Parallax (1/8)**   
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**  
Parallax  
**

_  
Parallax:   
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_  
(  
_  
ˈ  
_  
_  
pa-rə-  
_  
laks)  
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_  
The apparent displacement or the difference in apparent direction of an object as seen from two different points.  
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_Middle French parallaxe, from Greek parallaxis, from parallassein to change, from para- + allassein to change, from allos other (Merriam-Webster Online)._  
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ˌ  
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_

  
  


**  
One  
**

 

It wasn’t a proper river, not really. More a muddy trickle that ran through concrete fetters. The sight of it made him long for the Thames of his youth, the reeking gray waters that moved back and forth with the tides, that snaked through his city the way his cold blood twisted through his body. Although he’d never admit it aloud, he’d rowed that river when he was at Oxford. He’d traversed its bridges numberless times, smelled it often as he walked down the Strand. And he’d never seen it himself, but he remembered his grandfather speaking of times when _he_ was a boy, and the river had frozen completely over, and they would set up frost fairs in the middle where one could see shows and purchase trinkets. His grandfather even claimed he’d seen an elephant led across the ice under Blackfriars Bridge.

Even when it contained water, the LA River would never freeze.

“Stop gaping and move your ass!”

Spike was torn from his reverie by Angel’s angry voice. He shook himself slightly and joined the others as they slid and skittered down the steep banks. Two dozen M’raghi demons were waiting for them. Nothing much compared to the battle they’d won against Wolfram &amp; Hart three years earlier, but still not exactly an ice cream social. And now, they had no demon god on their side. Only a handful of assorted human beings: the motley strays that seemed to be attracted to his grandsire and his stupid crusades like moths to a flame.

Spike threw himself at a M’raghi before he could admit that he was essentially one of those strays as well.

It was a long fight, and a bloody one. By the time it was over, most of the demons were dead and the rest had fled. Spike was beaten and sore and tired, but those were familiar complaints, and he knew they’d go away with a few pints of blood and a nice, long kip. None of his injuries bothered him as much as the look of impatient contempt Angel gave him as they got back in the Viper.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Spike? We have demons to kill, and you just stand there like a kid watching a parade go by. Or maybe you were chicken. Were you scared of the big, bad demons, Spike?” He threw the car into gear and gunned the gas, screeching away from the curb with unnecessary speed.

“Was just thinking,” Spike said wearily.

“Yeah, well, there’s your first mistake. Leave the thinking to those who are any good at it.”

_  
Like you?  
_  
Spike nearly sneered; but he said nothing, because they’d had this same argument—or ones nearly like it—a thousand times and he was suddenly sick of the script. So he just closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the headrest. He felt the road's every bump and jostle in the deep wounds of his chest; and in his shoulder, which had been dislocated and which he’d had to jam back into place against an overpass support pillar; and in his head, which was still bleeding sluggishly from a taloned blow. Angel would be angry later, when he saw the mess Spike had made of his upholstery.

It was a short ride through nearly empty streets back to the Hyperion. Angel and Spike didn’t speak to one another when they arrived. They slammed the car doors and went inside and then limped their separate ways: Angel to his suite on the third floor, Spike to his smaller room on the fourth.

If a person were to enter Spike’s room—although none ever did—he would assume Spike hadn’t been staying there for long. Aside from the empty whiskey bottles that were scattered about, and the overflowing ashtrays, it had little more individual character than the hotel room it had once been. Spike had scrounged up a small telly when he’d first moved in, and then he’d added a mini-fridge and microwave, so he could cool and heat his servings of blood. The chest of drawers held two pairs of black jeans identical to those he wore now and four black t-shirts. Hanging in the cupboard were a red shirt and a black one, and the six dusters that remained of the ten he’d been given after their holiday in Italy. A novel was splayed open on the bedside table: _Bangkok 8_. The loo contained packets of hair bleach and a tube of gel and the poncy shampoo that Spike pretended was his secret vice—acai berry and guava, which made him smell like a bloody tropical fruit salad but made his hair soft and silky as well—and a comb and a pair of scissors and two towels.

Spike had never been much interested in accumulating possessions. Too difficult to drag about with a vampire’s nomadic life. But he’d always kept a few things: some jewelry and books and a few other odds and ends. He’d stopped, though, after everything he’d owned was destroyed in Sunnydale; and then for a time he’d had no place of his own to keep things anyhow. Now, well, there was nothing much he was interested in owning.

When he got inside his room, he slammed the door shut, shrugged out of his duster and, giving it a quick inspection, was pleased to see that the only damage was a small amount of blood. He kicked off his boots, then more gingerly peeled off his jeans and shirt, which were sticking to his mending wounds. He grabbed a plastic container of blood from the fridge and didn’t bother to heat it before he guzzled it down. Pig’s blood. Tasted like shite no matter what you did with it.

The water from the shower hurt a bit as it hit his injuries, but the heat of it was brilliant and it felt lovely to get the caked filth off. He stayed under the spray a long time. Eventually he emerged into the steamy little room and toweled off. It was a nice towel, thick and soft. Angel bought all the linens, and the pouf always did have good taste in things like that.

When he was dry, Spike dropped the towel on the floor and combed his hair. After all these years, he still stood in front of the mirror to do so, even though he knew he’d see only the white wall behind him. Then he went back into the main room and pulled on fresh clothing. After standing uncertainly for a moment, he yanked the door open and headed slowly downstairs. He still hurt.

He could hear them long before he saw them. As usual, the crew had gathered in a room off the lobby that Spike reckoned had once been a dining room. Over time, the humans had dragged in odd bits of mismatched furniture. Christ knew where it all came from, but it was comfortable: several sofas and some armchairs; two big, scarred tables on which were usually stacked maps and books and pads of paper; a desk with a computer and printer on it. There was a telly in one corner as well, much bigger than his own and with a DVD player hooked up. The room smelled of coffee and soft drinks and salty snack foods.

They were all here. Angel in one of the chairs, a glass of blood in his hand. Derek and Jamie stuffed together in another chair, bodies entwined, making googly eyes at one another as always. Yuri at the computer, furiously typing away. And the others—Blake and Lilia and that new one, what was his name...Rudy—sprawled across the sofas. Nobody looked at Spike as he entered the room, and although he’d have preferred to sit and rest his abused body, he leaned up against the wall just next to the doorway.

They were discussing that night’s fight, all talking over one another, laughing and teasing and joking. “Did you see that big one?” Lilia asked.

“They were all big, dude,” Jamie responded.

“No, I mean the _really_ big one, the one with the sorta twisty horn and the Harley shirt?”

Jamie laughed. “Oh, yeah. _That_ big one.”

Lilia nodded. “So he made this lunge for me, and I thought that was it, you know? But his foot slipped and he fell—Boom!—and then I was right on top of that sucker. Got him right in the eyes.” She made a stabbing motion with her fist.

“Well, obviously those freaks need footwear with better traction,” Jamie said.

“Maybe I should get myself in business. Demon Boots Inc.”

Someone started singing that Nancy Sinatra song, and even Angel smiled and joined the others in humming along.

When things had quieted a bit, Rudy asked, “So is that the end of that problem?” He’d only been with them a few weeks. He was in his late 20s and he’d been a cop, until he saw his partner get eaten by something supernatural and then Rudy had gone a bit mental for a while. He’d quit the LAPD and eventually somehow found his way to their door, insisting he wanted to help. He was a good shot, which was helpful, and kept his head in emergencies. He also had EMT training, which came in handy.

Angel shook his head. “No. There are plenty more of them. And the next batch will be more careful, too. They’re not rocket scientists, but they’re smart enough to learn from their mistakes. Which is more than I can say for some.” And he shot Spike a look that made the others chuckle.

Spike scowled and wrapped his arms around himself. He wished he had a fag on him, but they were upstairs in his duster pocket.

“So what do we do next?” Rudy asked.

Angel started in on a long and boring explanation; Spike stopped listening about five words in. Instead he watched the way Blake hung on the big vampire’s every utterance and the way Angel’s gaze kept finding its way to Lilia. She was his type exactly: small and blonde and bossy. The pouf had strayed to the other side of the fence now and then over the centuries, but with Lilia about, poor, handsome, slightly dim Blake didn’t stand a chance.

Spike settled himself slightly more comfortably against the wall, and winced when he jostled his shoulder.

“Am I boring you, Spike?”

“I’ve heard it all before, Peaches. ‘Let’s fly to the rescue, blah-de-blah, fate of the world hangs in the balance, yadda yadda, don’t have a bloody clue about how to organize anything so I’ll just keep on talking out my arse.’”

Angel didn’t frown. It would have been better if he had. “And I suppose you have one of your usual genius plans?” he said, teeth bared in a smile.

Spike shrugged. “We find ‘em, we kill ‘em. That’s a good enough scheme.”

“Yeah?” Still smiling. “And I suppose you know where they’re hiding. And how to get to them before they do more damage to the city water supply. And then how to wipe them out without getting us wiped out first.”

Spike opened his mouth to reply, but Angel jumped in first. “Look at us, Spike! One night’s skirmish, shoulda been easy. But Lilia’s got a badly sprained ankle and Derek almost ended up with a concussion, and you just stood there stargazing!”

“I fought too! I got….” He snarled into silence. Wouldn’t do any good to pull up his shirt; the wounds had already closed on his skin, although he could still feel the ache deep inside.

Angel just rolled his eyes and angled his body back toward Lilia and the others. “So what I was thinking,” he began, but Spike didn’t stay to listen.

 

***

 

Despite the name, Vesuvius was a fairly quiet bar and, as far as demon bars went, relatively classy. It had once been a strip club and the stage still remained, but now was used only on Tuesdays for karaoke night. Mercifully, today was Thursday.

Spike’s usual table in the back of the room was free. He waved a bit at the waitress, a pretty Bhanrse half-breed. Her long pink tail was sticking out from beneath her skirt as always and, as always, he found himself wondering what that tail would feel like during a nice shag. But he’d never know—Sallee had an eye only for other girls.

“Hey, Spike,” she said when she made her way over. “Usual?”

“Just bring the bottle tonight, love.”

She frowned a bit, then nodded. He always tipped well.

As she went to fetch his drink, he looked about the place. It was close to half full, mostly the usual crowd. Some demons, some half-breeds, a few humans who were curious or had a kink for scales or fur. The two vamps sitting at the bar gave him a nervous look, but he knew them and they’d been noshing only on the willing as far as he knew. He certainly wasn’t in the mood to dust anyone. Part of the reason why Vesuvius was quiet was that he came often, and the nastiest of the locals knew to stay away—for which Dot was grateful. Spike could have drunk here for free, but Angel gave him a sodding allowance and Spike had very little he cared to spend it on. It wasn’t as if he was going to put it into a retirement account.

Sallee returned with a glass and a three-quarters-full bottle of Jack. “Anything else? Dot has some O-Neg, I think.”

Spike occasionally drank human when he came here. It was hospital rejects, or so Dot said. But he wasn’t really hungry now and just wanted the fire of booze in his belly. “No thanks, love.” He pulled a fifty from his pocket and handed it to her. “This do it for now?”

“Sure. Just holler if you get dry.” She took the bill and made her way to a nearby table of Brachen.

The level of amber liquid in the bottle gradually decreased, but Spike’s level of unhappiness stayed the same. The worst of it, really, was that he was angry with himself. He’d known what a tosser his grandsire was since the nineteenth century—known nearly since the night Spike had risen. Shoving the bloody soul into Angelus had made him slightly less sadistic and malicious, but that was more than made up for by the marked increase in brooding and self-righteousness. Spike had never expected Angelus to acknowledge Spike’s strengths in the old days, not even when Spike had killed his first Slayer. And later, he’d never bothered to hope that one day Angel would congratulate him on having fought for his soul—not a bloody curse, but a hard-won prize—and on helping save the world soon after. Certainly there had been that bit when he was barmy, but at least he hadn’t spent a hundred years feeding off vermin and feeling sorry for himself. Now he knew he’d never hear Angel thank him for being the first to stand at his side when Angel declared his suicidal scheme at Wolfram &amp; Hart, for getting torn nearly to bits in that battle and then coming back for more, and then more.

So why had he stayed?

Perhaps he was a masochist.

Or perhaps he was afraid. Because where else did he have to go? Angel barely tolerated him, but at least he _knew_ Spike.

For a brief time after they’d defeated the lawyers, Spike considered finding Buffy. But deep inside, he’d known that would never work. He’d known from the moment his soul was stuffed inside him. And wasn’t that an irony? He won his soul so he could be the man she deserved, yet the soul made him realize he could never be that man.

Never be any kind of man at all.

He could have gone off on his own, of course. He was hardly a bleeding fledge; he’d manage somehow. But he’d always been shite at being alone. And there was that voice deep inside, the really nasty one, and it whispered to him that nobody would ever want him, nobody _could_ ever want him, and the best he could hope for was Angel’s contempt.

“Mind if I join you? Or is this a solo mope?”

Spike wanted to growl at the bloke. But the truth was, he didn’t really mind having that depressing train of thought derailed, and the man was grinning at him sort of goofily and it was hard to take offense.

Spike thought for a moment, then gestured at the empty chair across from him. “Hope you have your own drink, mate, ‘cause I’m not sharing.”

The man’s smile never faltered. He plopped himself down into the seat a little clumsily and lifted the brown bottle he held in his hand. “Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Nectar of the gods, my friend.” He took a long swig.

Spike took some time to examine his new companion. He looked human, but he had an odd scent to him, something Spike couldn’t quite place. He looked to be in his early thirties, a bit above average height, and quite fit. He had slightly messy dark hair and clear, greenish eyes and a bit of stubble on his square chin. He was attractive but not overly so, amidst the glut of actor-wannabes and ubiquitous plastic surgery. He looked…pleasant. Hardly the type to be in a demon bar, even an upscale one. His clothes were as unoffensive and unremarkable as the rest of him—khaki trousers, white collarless shirt, brown sport coat.

He withstood Spike’s scrutiny with patience and good grace. When Spike finally leaned back a bit in his chair and had another burning swallow of Jack, the man smiled widely. “Name’s Trevor Batt,” he said.

“Spike,” was the curt reply.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, everybody does. You’re kind of famous.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “If you’re here because something’s haunting you or you’ve an apocalypse needs averting, you’re wasting your time. Go take it up with Angel.”

Trevor laughed. “No hauntings and not a single impending apocalypse. At least that I know of. Look, I’m not all that fond of drinking alone, and I saw you and thought to myself, “Man, I bet he’s interesting to talk to.’ That’s all.”

Spike relaxed a bit. “’M not interesting,” he mumbled.

“Oh, I doubt that! I’ve heard some stories about you, and if they’re even half true, well, I’m impressed.”

“You know what I am?”

Trevor’s smile didn’t dim. “Vampire.”

“You make a habit of chatting up vampires?”

“If I did, I sure wouldn’t last long! Nope, you’re my first vamp.”

“And what are you?”

Trevor shrugged. “Just a guy. Made a few bucks in the dot-com game a few years back and managed not to lose it. Now I’m kind of retired, but I dabble in this and that.”

“You dabble. In demon bars.”

Trevor had very white, even teeth. “It’s kind of a hobby. Some guys golf or play fantasy football.”

The man was a puzzle. But a puzzle was good right now, a diversion from Spike’s usual gloomy thoughts. Spike decided to play along, at least for now. “So…are you from the City of Angels?”

Trevor slumped back in his chair, clearly sensing that he’d been accepted, at least tentatively. “Nope. Is anyone from here? I grew up in the world’s most boring suburb, outside of Chicago. Lived in San Jose for a while. But I like the warm beaches and the sun, and— Oh. Sorry. Is that an insensitive thing to say to a vampire?”

Spike couldn’t help but snort. “People don’t generally worry about being insensitive to vampires, mate.”

“Well, maybe they should. You have feelings, right? Don’t worry, I won’t get all hysterically PC on you or anything, but…geez. I don’t wanna offend you.”

As Trevor spoke, there was an earnest gleam in his eyes. And something else as well, perhaps.

“I’m not a nancy,” Spike announced. “I know there’s loads of rubbish out there about vampires, about how we’re all sexually insatiable and not very picky about what we shag, but it’s just rubbish. Yeah, I know vamps who are poufs, or who play for both teams, but I expect they were like that before they were turned. Maybe didn’t admit it to themselves, but they were.”

Trevor looked more amused than affronted. “I wasn’t coming on to you, don’t worry. I promise, nothing more than a little bromance.”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Bromance?”

“It’s when two guys— Ah, hell, it’s a stupid term. Really, I just wanted to talk, that’s all.”

Spike tried to think of the last time anyone had wanted to talk with him. Nothing came to mind. He smiled and poured himself a bit more whiskey. “All right, then. Let’s talk.”

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/191598.html) 


	2. </strong> Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[parallax](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/parallax), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
**Title:** Parallax  
**Chapter: **(2/8)  
**Characters:** Spike, Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** Dub-con, angst  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.  
**A/N:** Thank you to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for another awesome banner! I'll post the remainder of the chapters when I return to town on Monday. Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/profile)[**plot_wout_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/) . 

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Parallax&filter=all).

  
 

_   
**Parallax (2/8)**   
_

**  
Two  
**

 

Spike didn’t see Angel for a few days. Didn’t see anyone, actually, other than an occasional quick encounter on the stairs or passing through the lobby. He could have joined them in their makeshift lounge in the evenings. They wouldn’t have kicked him out. But they wouldn’t have welcomed him either, and he was tired of being tolerated. It reminded him of his mother’s spinster Aunt Flora, a shriveled woman who’d always looked to young William like a fairy-tale witch, and who had the disposition of an irritated wolverine. Still, she’d been invited to Christmas dinners and other family events out of feelings of social obligation, and everyone had argued ahead of time over who had to sit near her during the meal. Afterward, she’d be steered to a straight-backed chair in a corner and as studiously ignored as decorum permitted. Spike had always wondered why she bothered to attend at all. Now he knew: she had nowhere else to go, and even her reluctant relatives were sometimes better than nobody at all.

Spike didn’t want to be Aunt Flora.

So he kept mainly to his room during the day, watching the telly, and after dark he went to Vesuvius or if he was in the mood for something rougher, The Spit.

But on Wednesday afternoon, there was nothing on television he could stand to watch and he’d finished his book and it was still several hours before he could venture outside. So he made his way down to Angel’s office, which he was relieved to find empty of its usual occupant.

The office had several packed bookshelves. Most of the books concerned mystical shite—Angel had taken them from Wolfram &amp; Hart as well as from poor Wesley’s flat. But a few shelves held literature instead, and it was those that Spike perused. Unfortunately, all the books were to his grandsire’s taste—Sartre and Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and Goethe and Proust and bloody Joyce—everything boring, depressing, or pretentious the old pillock could dig up, and all in the original languages, of course. But then Spike caught sight of a well-worn copy of _Juliette_, almost hidden between   
_  
L'Étranger   
_  
and _Die Leiden des jungen Werthers_. “Perverted old sod,” Spike cackled, and removed the book.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Spike spun about—probably much more guiltily than necessary—to see Angel standing in the doorway. Glowering, of course. “Just borrowing a book,” Spike said.

“You’re messing with my stuff.”

“I haven’t touched any of your ‘stuff’ except this one book.”

Angel flinched a bit when he saw what it was. “That’s a first edition.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Liam! I’m capable of reading a bloody book without destroying it.”

“I’d trust it to a two-year-old eating spaghetti first. Or…or Xander Harris!”

“Right.” Spike opened to the middle of the book, grasped the front half with one hand and the back with the other, and very slowly and deliberately ripped down the spine.

“Hey!” Angel rushed over and snatched the pieces of book out of Spike’s grip. He cradled the halves to his chest for a moment, then growled, dropped them, and punched Spike's face hard enough to make his nose crack and to send him crashing back into the shelf behind him.

Spike stood up straight again and wiped the trickle of blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. They knew this dance. They’d danced it hundreds of times before. They would begin with harsh words and quickly evolve into hard fists and sharp fangs. They’d end up throwing each other about the room and rolling on the floor together until they were both too battered to go on.

Today, Spike didn’t want to play.

He stalked toward Angel, who took a half-step back and then gaped when Spike just went around him. Angel was still staring stupidly when Spike left the office.

 

***

 

He was restless. An entire bloody hotel to wander about in, but he couldn’t find a comfortable spot. He was sick to undeath of staring at the walls in his own room, and everywhere else he went, it seemed, there was one of Angel’s gang, startling slightly at his appearance and then, clearly, waiting anxiously for him to leave. He didn’t understand how such a small number of people could be so many places.

He was finally driven to wandering the top floor, which was risky because it was still mostly in ruin, and there were no coverings over the windows. He moved from shadow to shadow, sometimes yelping quietly and smoking as a ray of California sunshine caught up with him. Sometimes he stopped to examine the bits of debris that were scattered about. Squatters had stayed here at some point, leaving their used needles and empty plastic bags on the floors. Pigeons had come in through a broken window and roosted on broken furniture, but not recently. Perhaps they didn’t fancy sharing an address with vampires. And there were other items up here as well, small things for which he had no explanation. A broken doll that reminded him of Drusilla. A waterlogged set of _Encyclopedia Britannica_, volumes Ch- through Fr- only. A hand mirror in an ornate enameled frame; the glass was cracked but still all there. An axe with old human blood flaking off the blade. A pair of men’s dress shoes, black and very dusty. A decorative pin of the sort a woman might have once worn on her dress; it was in the shape of a bee, and it was made of heavy gold with diamonds along its back and rubies as eyes. He slipped the bee into a pocket of his duster; it was old and exquisitely made and probably worth a small fortune.

He watched the sunset. It was lurid, as sunsets often were in LA. The smog made for pretty colors, fiery oranges and delicate pinks and even blood reds.

When the sky was dark, he made his way down the stairs to the lobby. Angel was there, talking to Yuri and Lilia about something that had Yuri nearly shouting with excitement: “—tell you, I feel energies and they are not good!” Yuri was fully human but, through some chain of events that was too confusing for Spike to bother untangling, had been raised by a clan of Pobornik demons in Belarus. They’d taught him some basic magics, sent him to the States for university, and then got themselves wiped out somehow or other. Yuri hoped to avenge them someday, but in the meantime he seemed content as one of Angel’s minions.

Angel barely afforded Spike a hostile glance as Spike walked by.

Spike had a car of his own, a piece of shit ’64 Plymouth Valiant that could be a powerful little monster if someone could be arsed enough to scrape away the rust and get the V8 running properly. Angel had given him the car two years earlier when he grew tired of Spike nicking the Viper. Spike still nicked the Viper now and then, but tonight he drove the Plymouth to Vesuvius.

The place was busier than last time, and someone—well, some_thing_, a demon Spike didn’t know the name of but which reminded him of an octopus with feathers—was in his seat. Spike scowled and it scurried away, its many legs moving in a way that made Spike slightly nauseous. Sallee took one look at Spike’s sour face and brought him a bottle of Jack and a glass without even being asked. He muttered a thanks, and started viciously mutilating the black and white label.

“Gone from moping to simmering, I see.”

Spike looked up with a half-formed snarl. But Trevor was smiling at him disarmingly and Spike let his face settle back into a frown. He waved a hand at the empty chair. “Still dabbling?” he asked.

“Yeah. I like this place. When someone makes a pass at me, I can try to guess the gender _and_ species, and also judge the likelihood I’ll end up as dinner rather than a date.”

Spike cast a dismissive look about the room. “Mostly vegetarians here. You fancy a walk on the wild side, go to The Spit instead. Or Tom O’Hawk’s.” He grimaced. That place was distasteful even by his standards.

“I think I’ll confine my dabbling to safer grounds, thanks.” Trevor had a bottle of pale ale again, and he took a long pull. “So, uh, most of these guys here are terrified of you, aren’t they?”

Spike shrugged. “Dunno. More likely of my grandsire.”

“Really? That’s not what I heard.” He leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “I heard that some folks think Angel is kind of, uh, getting a little soft. No offense or anything. But you’re supposed to be the real muscle.”

Was Angel getting soft? That thing with the lawyers had taken a lot out of both of them. Spike had recently been thinking that Angel was nearly back to his old, cape-swinging self. But perhaps not; perhaps Spike was missing something. All he said to Trevor, though, was, “Huh.”

Trevor sat back in his chair and smiled again. “Anyway, I know for a fact that plenty of these demons would shit themselves if you looked at ‘em cross-eyed.”

Spike shrugged again and downed a glass of whiskey.

They drank in silence for a time, but it was companionable silence. Sallee brought Trevor another beer when he emptied his first.

“So, um, if you don’t mind my asking, how come you stick with Angel? Is it some kind of vampire family thing?”

Spike snorted. “No. It’s just…he has a bloody huge hotel, and it doesn’t cost me anything to stay there, and he has plenty of blood to drink….”

“You’re a pretty capable guy. You couldn’t get room and board on your own? I doubt that.”

“Guess I can't be bothered.” And because Trevor's question made him uncomfortable—it was one he couldn't honestly answer—Spike changed the subject. “How’d you suss out about demons and whatnot, anyhow? Most humans walk about with their heads too far up their arses to notice.”

Trevor laughed. He had a nice laugh, deep and rich. “Yeah, know what you mean. And it took me plenty of years, too. But I was heavily involved in several online companies and one of them sold herbal stuff. Herbs4Health.com. You know, stuff for people who go in for holistic medicine, or who like to make their own teas, or who like to do craft shit. Potpourri, like that. But I noticed some of the orders were kind of…unusual. To make a long story short, that led me to the world of witchcraft. And once I learned that magic was _real_, well….”

“Demons were just the next door down.”

“Exactly. I can’t believe how blind I was for so long—how blind everyone is. I mean, look at this place!” He waved his hands about, nearly spilling his beer. “It’s right under everyone’s noses.”

“People see what they expect to see.”

“Amen.”

They talked for an hour or two after that, about nothing in particular really. Trevor asked Spike a few gentle questions about his past, but nothing too intrusive, and Trevor spoke a bit of his days at university and about his failed marriage. It was simply an ordinary conversation, but Spike had those so very rarely; and the longer they spoke the more he relaxed, until all his frustration and anger had ebbed away and he discovered himself smiling and laughing. Happy.

Finally, Trevor looked at his watch and sighed with what seemed to be genuine regret. “I gotta call it a night. I have an appointment in the morning. Sorry.”

Spike hid his disappointment with a grin. “Not everyone can keep vampire hours.”

Trevor took a last swallow of beer and stood. “Nope, guess not.” He hesitated a moment, and then added, “Um, I don’t know what your schedule’s like, but maybe we could get together again sometime soon?”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “A date?”

The other man chuckled. “Platonic. We could meet here, or— I know! There’s this band playing on Saturday at Darlings. Abrupt Edge, they’re called. They’re pretty good. Kind of old-school punk with a little 90s grunge thrown in.” He had a tense, expectant look on his face, as if he really wanted Spike to take him up on his offer, and as if he thought Spike might.

Spike considered it for a moment. He hadn’t been much of anywhere in ages. And when was the last time he’d been invited anywhere? “All right,” he said.

Trevor beamed. “Excellent! I’ll, uh, we can meet at the club, maybe? It’s over on—”

“I can find it, mate.”

“Cool. Nine o’clock?”

Spike nodded and smiled. “It’s a date.”

 

***

 

Spike took an immediate dislike to Darlings as soon as he saw it. It was in an industrial part of town, and they’d deliberately kept the entrance worn and battered looking. He didn’t mind that. What bothered him was the queue of humans outside the door: people in their twenties, mostly, with fauxhawks and tattoos and piercings and designer copies of 70s punk fashions. And the bouncer, who was huge, dressed in a poncy suit, with that particular air of officiousness and menace only bouncers could manage. And the red velvet rope that was keeping the queue in check, and the little sparkly lights he could make out just inside the door.

He marched his way to the bouncer and waited to be let in. The bouncer looked him up and down with a bit of a sneer. “End of the line’s back there, buddy,” the mountain rumbled, pointing down the block.

“Not going to stand in a bloody queue, am I?” Spike countered.

“Then you ain’t going in. And nice fake accent, by the way.”

Spike bristled. He wanted to show his demon face, to pick this sodding idiot up with one fist and throw him across the pavement. But that would create a scene, and Angel would hear about it and pitch a fit—he heard about every bloody thing—and it just wasn’t worth it. So Spike growled and hunched his shoulders and spun around, meaning to march back to his car.

But just then a sleek limo pulled up to the curb, and Trevor Batt hopped out. His physique was nicely displayed in a pair of tight jeans and an even tighter white t-shirt, very expensive clothing meant to look down-market. Trevor loped over to Spike’s side, grinning widely. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up in some boring crap.”

Spike opened his mouth to say he was going home, but Trevor slung an arm about Spike’s shoulders and swept him toward the bouncer. The bouncer had already stepped aside and lifted the rope, and was attempting something that resembled a smile. “Welcome, sir,” he said to Trevor.

Trevor handed the man a pair of bills—Spike got just a flash of Ben Franklin’s homely face—and led Spike inside. “You don’t have to—” Spike began.

“Oh, my treat. I asked you, after all. Next time’s on you.”

The cavernous interior was done up in industrial chic, all exposed ceiling beams and bare concrete with artfully applied graffiti. Busy bartenders—lit by hanging bulbs in wire cages—worked an extensive steel bar along one wall. Small tables were packed fairly tightly, but an open space had been left near the stage. The place smelled of sweat and alcohol, and the loudspeakers were blaring “Friday I’m in Love.”

Trevor leaned his head in close to Spike’s ear, presumably so Spike could hear him above the din, and said, “Don’t worry. The music’ll get better.”

Spike snorted, and Trevor led them to a table that seemed to magically become available right near the edge of the dance floor. As soon as they were seated, a pale, shirtless bloke appeared, jeans barely hanging on his hips. A vampire, Spike realized straight away, and the vamp recognized him as well because his eyes went very wide. “Uh, what can I get you?” the waiter said, trying to regain his composure.

“Sierra Nevada Pale Ale,” Trevor said.

“We don’t have that.” The vamp had a flat, Midwestern accent. He was barely more than a fledge, Spike reckoned.

Trevor smiled. “Why don’t you double-check? Never know what you’ll find if you really look. How about you, Spike?”

“Double shot of Jack, neat.”

The waiter bobbed his head nervously and scurried away. “Didn’t know this was a demon place,” Spike said when he was gone.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Our fearless server. He’s a vamp.”

Trevor craned his neck to look after the vamp’s retreating back. “Really? How can you tell? I mean, without the fangs and stuff showing.”

Spike tapped his own ear. “No heartbeat.” And then his nose. “Scent’s different as well. Like a human’s, but...muskier.”

“Wow. Vampire senses must be really cool.” Spike’s companion looked genuinely impressed.

“Yeah, I reckon so. They come in handy. ‘Course, there are times I’d trade them for the chance to lie out in the sun.”

“I guess there are some downsides. The not entering without an invitation thing, that could be a bitch sometimes, I bet. And having to obey your sire.”

Spike had been looking at a pretty brunette wearing what amounted to a leather bikini, but now he swung around to face Trevor. “Obey my sire?”

“Well, yeah. I thought there was the whole vampire hierarchy, and a childe has to obey his sire.”

“First off, I am _not_ a childe, with or without the final e. ‘M a century-and-a-half old, mate. And second, I told you, all that sire shite is just rot. Stoker’s daddy issues coming through or, even worse, Anne Rice’s fantasies. I don’t have to obey _anyone_, least of all Angel.”

Trevor looked abashed. “Oh. Sorry. But then why does he get to be in charge of you? He’s kind of...close-minded, isn’t he? From what I hear, I mean. Never met the guy. But I think it would make more sense for someone like you to run things. You’re a natural leader.”

Spike wasn’t certain whether the bloke was taking the piss. In any case, before he could respond their undead waiter appeared. He plopped a glass of whiskey in front of Spike and a brown bottle in front of Trevor.

“See?” Trevor beamed. “I knew you’d find some if you looked. Just gotta make the effort.”

The waiter looked confused, but perked up a bit when he saw the size of the tip Trevor gave him. Then his eye fell on Spike again, and he remembered to be frightened. “Um, you’re not...um..._him_, are you?”

“And which him would that be, pet?” Spike purred.

The waiter licked his lips nervously. “Uh....” And then, in a near-whisper, “William the Bloody. One of the vampires with a soul.”

Spike smiled sweetly. “I generally go by Spike, these days.”

The waiter swallowed. He’d probably have gone pale, if he were capable. “God, please. I swear, I’m not eating anyone, okay? Well, sometimes I bite my boyfriend, but he _likes_ it. I promise I’m not killing or anything. Just trying to make, an, uh, honest living.” He flapped his hand about to indicate the club in general.

Spike reckoned he was probably telling the truth. In any case, Spike wasn’t in a particularly righteous mood. “Tell you what, love,” he said. “As long as I don’t hear of any patrons of this fine establishment showing up dead by barbecue fork, we’re good. But if I _do_ hear of it....” He allowed himself to trail off ominously.

The waiter shook his head so enthusiastically Spike was afraid it might fall off. “You won’t! I promise! Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Spike! If there’s anything I can do for you—I can get you free admission here anytime, or—”

Spike waved him into silence. “That’s fine, pup. Right now, you can get me a refill, yeah?” Because he’d drained his glass while the boy was babbling.

As eager as the puppy Spike had alluded to, the waiter grabbed Spike’s empty glass and ran off. Trevor gave his rich laugh as soon as he was gone. “You have quite a way with people, don’t you?”

“He’s not people. He’s a demon.”

“Well, demons are people, too, right?” Trevor grinned and tipped his beer toward Spike in a mock toast.

They were both distracted by a commotion from the stage as the band arrived and began to get settled. They were pretty minimalist, just two blokes with guitars and one on drums. At least they weren’t dressed in the ersatz retro of most of the club’s customers—the band members simply wore well-broken-in blue jeans and t-shirts. A bit of fiddling with amplifiers and mics, and then they began to play.

Spike liked them. They weren’t spectacular by any means, but they were far from awful. The singer had a decent voice. They did some predictable covers but they did a passable job with them—he especially fancied their version of “Rudie Can’t Fail”—and their original tunes were quite good. Four songs in, a goth bint with dyed-black hair and a skull tattoo on her bicep stopped at the table and tried to tug Spike onto the dance floor. Trevor waved him on, so Spike shrugged off his duster and allowed himself to be towed.

Honestly, Spike had never been much of a dancer. When he was human, he didn’t seem to have the grace for it. He’d trod on his partner’s feet during a waltz, or blushed and sweated his way through a quadrille. Of course being turned gave him the coordination and confidence he’d previously lacked, but he still didn’t enjoy it much. Unless it was a slow dance, of course, the sort in which dancing was nearly clothed sex.

But the dancing that was happening here was fast and mostly formless, and he soon found himself lost in the joy of movement, a thrill very akin to what he felt when fighting or fucking. After a song or two, the goth girl was replaced by a willowy blonde, and then by a bird with close-cropped hair and milk-chocolate skin, and then a wiry boy whose fringe kept flopping in his eyes. Sometimes he caught sight of Trevor, who mostly sat and watched from his chair. But once Spike glanced over and saw Trevor writhing in between a girl and a boy who looked enough alike to be siblings, and a ridiculous stab of jealousy went momentarily through Spike’s chest. He ignored it away.

When the band took a break, Spike flopped into his seat and downed the fresh drink that had materialized at some point. “Having fun?” Trevor asked.

“Bloody brilliant!” And it was, because while he was dancing—or even when he just sat and listened to the music—he wasn’t thinking, and that was a good thing.

They drank some more and, when the band came back, danced some more, until the band finally packed up and left, and the club began to clear out. Trevor looked over at Spike. “I know you don’t need to eat or anything, but I know this all-night diner....”

They went in Trevor’s limo. Spike had ridden in limos only occasionally. This one wasn’t huge, but it was nicely equipped and he had a good time playing with the buttons and switches. “It’s kind of embarrassing, really,” Trevor said, waving his hands around. “But driving in this city can be such a bitch, and I can get a lot of work done in this thing and stretch out a little while I do.”

“’T’s nice,” Spike shrugged. “You must have made loads off the Internet.”

“I was lucky. Got in early, made a few good investments, got out again before things went south. But that’s a really boring thing to talk about, even for me. How about you finish that story about the Nazi submarine?”

Spike barely made it back to the Hyperion before dawn. He was knackered, but in a pleasant way, and his throat felt hoarse from all the nattering.

Angel was hovering just inside the doors to the lobby. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, stepping into Spike’s path.

Spike went around him. “Out.”

“We have responsibilities, you know.”

Spike stopped and turned and gave Angel an even look. “_You_ haveresponsibilities. Self-imposed. Don’t mind helping out now and then, but you’re not my keeper.”

Angel huffed and looked very close to stomping his foot. “There was almost a riot tonight with some Curgrov demons and—”

“Did the world end?”

“What?”

“Did the world end? I spent one bloody night away from under your great thumb, enjoying myself for a change, and did the world end? Because it doesn’t bloody look like it.”

“Lilia got a horn in her arm.”

“Well, I’m certain you were there to kiss it all better, Peaches. Good night.” And he spun on his heel and stomped up the stairs.

 

***

 

Trevor had said he’d be gone for a week or so. Some business matters to sort. Spike was ashamed of himself for being a bit upset about it, mooning about the hotel like a lovesick teenager. He wasn’t in love with Trevor. He didn’t even want to shag the bloke—and he still wasn’t certain whether Trevor fancied men anyhow. But they were friends, and Spike hadn’t had a friend in...well, much longer than he cared to remember. It felt bloody nice, being with someone who wanted to be with him, who was interested in his stories, who seemed to appreciate him.

Three days after Trevor had gone, Spike stayed lazily in bed until past sundown, watching an old Bogart film on the telly. When he finally made his way to the lobby, it was very quiet. He wandered into the lounge but only Yuri was there, tapping away at the computer.

“Where’s himself?” Spike asked.

Yuri didn’t even look away from the monitor screen. “London.”

Spike felt his mouth drop open. “He’s gone to bloody _England_?”

“Canada. London, Ontario. He rented van. I stay here. No passport.”

“Why in bloody hell has he gone to Canada?”

“M’raghi. Our demons have friends there, causing trouble.” Yuri’s fingers flew over his keyboard. Spike couldn’t tell if he was working or playing a game of some sort.

“When did they leave?”

“Sunset.”

That was nearly two hours past. Spike clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Why didn’t anyone come get me? I was just upstairs.”

“Rudy suggested it. Angel said no. I do not know why.”

“Right,” Spike said, more to himself than Yuri, and he stomped out of the room. If Angel had taken a van, then Spike could certainly catch up to him in the Viper. He started to the front door but then came to a halt halfway across the lobby. Why should he go chasing after them like a lost calf? If Angel didn’t want him, fine. Let them get beat up for a change. Spike had better things to do.

And he stormed out of the hotel, hoping he could find one of those better things.

  
[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/192196.html)

 


	3. </strong> Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[parallax](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/parallax), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
**Title:** Parallax  
**Chapter: **(3/8)  
**Characters:** Spike, Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** Dub-con, angst  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.  
**A/N:** Thank you to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for another awesome banner!  Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/profile)[**plot_wout_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/) . 

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Parallax&filter=all).

  


_   
**Parallax (3/8)**   
_

**  
Three  
**

 

Angel and the rest of his crew still hadn’t returned several days later. Spike asked Yuri about it, as casually as he could because Yuri didn’t seem worried. “Jamie texted,” Yuri said. “They are fine. Still cleaning up demon mess.”

Spike nodded stiffly and went back up to his room. Of course Angel wouldn’t bother to ring and let Spike know he hadn’t been dusted. Why would he? It wasn’t like they were answerable to one another. Spike swore and punched a hole in his wall.

Later that evening, he went to Vesuvius. Shortly after he arrived so did Trevor, who made his way over to Spike’s table with his usual wide grin. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”

Spike shrugged. “’S all right.”

Then Trevor’s eyes went wide. “Did you get in a fight?” He was looking at Spike’s hand. The knuckles were still bloody, although the small abrasions had already mended underneath.

“Not really. Just...punched something,” Spike replied vaguely.

“I’d love to watch you fight someday. I’ll bet it’s a thing of beauty.”

Spike tilted his head for a moment. “Really?”

“Sure!”

“And you’d stay out of the way?”

“Hey, I’m curious, not suicidal.”

Spike stood. “Then let’s go.”

They took Spike’s car, mostly because Spike reckoned that parking Trevor’s BMW in The Spit’s neighborhood was a bad idea. Trevor exclaimed over the Valiant, though. “I love old cars,” he said, stroking the cracked plastic of the dashboard. “So much more character than the modern ones. If you’re willing to sink some cash into this one, it’d be really sweet.”

Spike looked at him dubiously. “Or it’d be a really expensive piece of shite.”

“No, I’m serious. Look, I’ve got a guy. Alejandro. I used to own a ’57 Thunderbird. It was nothing but a heap of rust in someone’s barn when I bought it—you’d hardly even know it used to be a car. But ‘Jandro did the mechanical work and his brother Diego did the body, and that thing was a work of art when they were through with it. Remind me later, I’ll give you his number.”

The Spit was a cesspool, no question about it. The security...thing...at the door was some sort of demon that made a Chorago look svelte. Spike wasn’t certain whether it was capable of speech; it generally grunted at him when he arrived. This time, its grunt seemed a bit more emphatic, and aimed at the human trailing along with Spike. “He’s with me,” Spike said. The demon made a movement that may have been a shrug, or perhaps a small earthquake, and shifted slightly so they could enter.

The place was dark and noisy, with dozens of demonic voices raised in various languages, and Lynyrd Skynyrd blaring from speakers somewhere, and a telly above the bar blasting what appeared to be _American Idol_. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the individual scents of numerous species, many of which did not place a strong value on personal hygiene. The wooden floor was sticky with Christ knew what.

Everyone in the bar seemed to pause and stare for a moment when Spike and Trevor entered. Perhaps because some knew Spike, by reputation if nothing else, or perhaps because Trevor was the only human in the place aside from a nearly-naked man with a collar around his neck, leaning up against the leg of a female Serparvo. Spike considered making a scene about that—the soul objected to slavery—but the bloke’s dick was obviously hard and he was looking adoringly up at his owner, apparently content with his station.

Spike lifted a lip in warning, and most of the patrons turned back to their drinks and companions. Spike led them to a table against one wall. He noticed that Trevor looked neither frightened nor overwhelmed, just interested, as if he were strolling through a museum. Or a zoo.

They sat, and a glowering Braznarc brought them a pair of shot glasses. He poured them full of whiskey, splashing a bit on the scarred wooden table, waited for Spike to hand over some cash, then slouched away. Trevor looked at his drink unhappily. “Wouldn’t bother asking for Sierra Nevada here, mate,” Spike said. “They won’t have it.”

“Oh, you never know,” Trevor replied, but he sipped at his drink anyhow. Then he set the glass down. “So, your thing you punched...was that some kind of nasty you and Angel were after?”

“Nah. Angel’s out of town.”

“Really? Vampire vacation? Where do vamps go on vacation, anyway?”

“The pouf would likely choose some catacombs somewhere. But he’s not on holiday. He’s after some Canuck demons.”

“Yeah?” Trevor’s eyebrows went up. “How come you didn’t go?”

“Wasn’t invited.” It came out sounding more bitter than Spike had intended.

“Why not? I mean, he’s gotta realize you’re his best asset in a fight.”

“Pillock can’t realize anything past his fat arse.”

“Well, that’s just stupid, then.”

Spike nodded once and threw back his drink.

Trevor put his finger in a small puddle and moved the liquid about. “I don’t know why you stick around someone who obviously doesn’t appreciate you. You tell me there’s no vampire family obligation, okay, but I just don’t get it.”

Spike wondered the same thing most of the time, but he didn’t say so. He waved his glass in the air for a refill.

“Why don’t you dump him, Spike? Seriously. Take off on your own. Or...or stage a coup, right? You lead his band of merry men. And women.”

Spike shook his head. “’T’s complicated.”

“Well, whatever. If it was me, I wouldn’t let someone treat me like that. But I’m just a human, I guess.”

Spike was spared having to reply when his gaze caught a Chaos demon a few tables over. It seemed unlikely that this was the same one Dru had the fling with in South America, but perhaps it was. They all looked the same to Spike. In any case, this one was giving him the evil eye and, as far as Spike was concerned, that was good enough. He leapt to his feet and marched to the creature’s table. “What are you looking at, mate?” he asked.

The demon stood. Its body was taller than his by several inches, and including those slimy antlers, it loomed over him. “A filthy half-breed and its human garbage,” the demon said.

That was more than enough. Spike vamped out and flew at him.

It was only a middling brawl, really. This Chaos demon was fairly big but it was slow, and Spike was doing a good job at avoiding being impaled by the antlers. He danced around the thing, getting in a kick or a blow now and then, mostly toying with it. Its friends didn’t seem inclined to assist; they just gave the fighters a wide berth and watched.

When the fight was over, a half-dozen tables were broken and several chairs as well. The Chaos demon was sprawled on its back, breathing but bloody and probably not conscious. Spike had a few minor wounds and one larger one—the sodding thing had got one good stab into his shoulder—and his shirt was ruined, which meant he’d have to go shopping soon.

He sat down across from Trevor and swigged the glassful of blood that had appeared. Human, and fresh. He decided not to ask where it came from; at The Spit, he was better off not knowing.

Trevor’s eyes were shining. “Wow!” he said. “Wow! That was fucking incredible.”

Spike shrugged, then winced slightly. “It was all right.” He watched dispassionately as the demon was dragged away. “Wasn’t much of a fighter.”

“You were so fast! I mean, that guy hardly touched you. And you didn’t even break a sweat.”

“Vamps don’t sweat.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “I was speaking figuratively. You could’ve beat a whole herd of those things, no problem.”

“I don’t much fancy his kind.”

“He didn’t seem all that fond of you, either.”

Spike sighed. “Vampires aren’t generally popular among other demons. Too human, I expect. And vamps with souls,” he spread his hands out, palms up, “even less so.”

“So you’re too human for the demons, and most humans are scared shitless of you, and other vamps are creeped out by the soul. And the one person who should understand is being an asshole to you.”

Why did the subject always seem to turn to Angel? Spike sighed again, even more wearily, and then stood. “Let’s go before we overstay our welcome, yeah?”

 

***

 

The night was still young, Trevor said. But Spike couldn’t go much of anywhere in his current tattered state. “Hang on,” Trevor said as they made their way to the Valiant. He pulled out his mobile phone and mumbled something into it. Once they were in the car, he gave Spike a series of mystifying directions, until they were well into a considerably posher bit of town, and Spike was pulling to a halt in front of a shop called, simply and cryptically, “Here.” The windows were decorated with naked manikins draped in sparkling streamers, which gave Spike little indication of what the shop’s wares might be.

“Don’t expect they’re open this late, mate,” Spike said.

Trevor opened the passenger-side door and climbed out. “I know the owner. C’mon.”

Sure enough, a smiling girl opened the shop door for them. She was as tall as Spike and very thin; she looked like she’d just stepped out of a magazine advert or a fashion runway. “Hi, Mr. Batt,” she said, giving Spike a careful once-over.

“Mai, this is my friend Spike. And he’s found himself unexpectedly in need of a new outfit.”

Mai cocked a perfect eyebrow. “I can see. Anything in particular you had in mind?”

“Oi,” Spike interrupted. “You don’t have to bloody dress me, Trevor. I’ve clothing of my own, you know.”

“Well, yeah, but right now, this place is closer than the Hyperion, isn’t it? Besides, it’s my fault you ruined your shirt. I’m the one who asked you to fight.”

Mai looked suddenly much more interested in Spike. “Fight?”

Trevor chuckled. “Oh, he was incredible! You shoulda seen how he— Well, never mind. Something in black, I think.”

The something in black ended up being a silk tee that fit Spike as if it had been made for him, and felt like heaven against his skin, and then a silk button-down in deep red. But the shirts looked stupid with Spike’s old, dirty jeans, so he ended up in a pair of leather trousers as well. Bloody impractical, and a bit too reminiscent of Angelus for Spike’s taste, but he could tell by the flush on the girl’s face and the way her pupils dilated as she regarded him that he looked a right treat in them.

Trevor refused to let Spike pay. There were no prices on the clothes, and Spike was fairly certain he couldn’t have afforded them anyway. He felt bloody idiotic, like he was some sort of sodding concubine or something, but he couldn’t suss out how to refuse without insulting his friend. Mai slipped Spike a piece of paper that probably contained her phone number, he thanked her with his very best leer, and then they were back in the Valiant.

“Now that you have me all dressed up, did you have someplace in mind?” Spike asked.

Trevor smiled, his white teeth shining under the streetlight. “Yep.”

What Trevor had in mind was another club, not too far away from the shop. Spike had no idea what this one was called, if anything, because there was no sign hanging on the big stucco building. The bouncer here was small and unassuming-looking; either this place didn’t need muscle, or the bloke was scarier than he looked. He smiled at Trevor and waved them both in.

The club was large, with a high ceiling. The room had been done up to look as if it were outdoors, with faux stars sparkling overhead and a big, painted-on full moon. One entire wall was taken up by a screen, onto which was projected a film that Spike recognized immediately as _Ocean’s 11_—the original, with Sinatra and the rest. And he realized that the entire club was meant to resemble a drive-in theater, with actual gravel covering the floor, and stainless-steel tables instead of cars. The bar was made to look like the concession stand.

A bird in a 1960s era bikini led them to a table. As they wound their way across the floor, Spike recognized a few famous faces among the nattering crowd. Nicholas Cage. Ben Affleck. Cameron Diaz. And was that Harrison Ford? Spike tried not to stare.

A pretty waiter came by and took their drink orders. He came back very quickly, carrying, naturally, a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, as well as a double shot of whiskey. The whiskey was in what appeared to be a miniature soft drink cup, which made Spike scowl. The waiter also plopped a big cardboard container of popcorn onto the center of the table before he left.

Trevor took a handful of the popcorn and shoved it in his mouth. “It’s the in place,” he said when he’d swallowed. “This week, anyway.”

Spike gave him a long look. “Exactly how much did you make in Silicon Valley?”

“Enough. More than enough. Plenty to play with. And it’s perfect—I’m rich enough to enjoy life without worrying about the hassle of paparazzi or anything.”

“Huh,” Spike said.

They watched the film for a time, and Spike discovered he was enjoying himself. When the caper was over, they put on Elvis instead. _Girls! Girls! Girls!_

“So, were you in the US in the sixties?” Trevor asked at one point.

“Eighteen- or nineteen-sixties?” responded Spike, although he knew the answer.

“Well, I meant nineteen. But man! The things you’ve seen firsthand. Do you have a favorite decade?”

Spike considered that. “Twenties were fun. Don’t know whether I’d enjoy them as much now, soul and all. Didn’t much fancy the Depression, and the fifties were dead boring, unless you got creative. Seventies were good. People fucking everything that moved, and none of them worried about diseases. Not that that was a problem for me, anyway.”

“You were with Drusilla most of the time, weren’t you?”

Spike was slightly taken aback. He hadn’t mentioned her to Trevor, hadn’t spoken of her at all in ages. “What, is there a bloody biopic of me or something?”

“No, just stories. I told you. I hear things, now and then. Probably half of them bullshit, like the obeying the sire thing.”

Spike sighed. “Yeah, I was with Dru then. On and off, really. We’d be together a few years, and then she’d run off after something or other. We’d always end up back together, though, sooner or later. Until Sunnydale.”

“You miss her.”

“No. Yes. I dunno, mate. It was just—she never really loved me, yeah? Sometimes she fancied she did, but she was too bloody barmy to stick to it. I loved her, though. That was real.” He swallowed his whiskey all in one go, relishing the burn as it went down. He chased it with several kernels of popcorn.

“That’s a long time to love someone,” Trevor said. “And not get anything back.”

“Wasn’t her fault. Angel fucked her up long before I met her. Besides, she always loved him first.” He’d rarely admitted that, even to himself. He wished he had more booze.

“And that vampire slayer, um...Buffy? She loved him first, too, right?”

Spike winced. “Yeah. Captain Forehead was the bloody love of her life, the great tragic figure. I was—I was a diversion. A way to scratch an itch.” Even as he said it, he knew that wasn’t exactly true. It wasn’t exactly false, either.

He glanced over at Trevor, who was giving him a serious look. He knew what his friend was thinking. Angel. Always bloody Angel, wasn’t it?

[Chapter Four ](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/192594.html)


	4. </strong> Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[parallax](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/parallax), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
_   
**Parallax (4/8)**   
_

  
**Title:** Parallax  
**Chapter: **(4/8)  
**Characters:** Spike, Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** Dub-con, angst  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.  
**A/N:** Thank you to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for another awesome banner!  Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/profile)[**plot_wout_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/) . 

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Parallax&filter=all).

    

 

**  
Four  
**

 

Angel and his crew arrived at the Hyperion in a noisy flourish. Spike happened to be in the lobby when they showed up; he had been making his way to the office to nick a book or two. But then Angel swept in, and when he came face-to-face with Spike, they both froze for a moment. Angel had been limping and his clothes were uncharacteristically disheveled and Spike could smell his grandsire’s blood, but he had that triumphant look on his face.

“Beat the bastards, did you?” Spike finally asked, coolly.

“Yeah.” There was a moment of awkward silence. “Without you.”

“Wasn’t invited, was I?” Spike managed to smirk instead of snarl.

“No.” And Angel walked by him, almost but not quite bumping against Spike’s shoulder as he passed.

An hour or so later, a meeting was called in the lounge. A debriefing, Spike expected. He wasn’t invited to that either, but he went anyway and skulked near the door as usual. Angel and Lilia sat next to each other on the sofa, and although they carefully didn’t touch, Spike could tell at once that they’d been shagging. He wondered how that had gone. Angelus was nowhere in sight, so apparently Lilia hadn’t made him perfectly happy. Angel avoided looking at Spike entirely, but the one time he forgot himself and let his glance fall near the door, Spike lifted his eyebrows and curled his tongue behind his teeth, and then laughed at the mighty frown he received in return.

After the meeting, during which Angel had nattered on endlessly about his great heroics, everyone headed up to their rooms. They looked knackered. But Angel grabbed Spike’s arm and dragged him away, over near the old reception desk.

“Soul still safely stuck on?” Spike smirked at him.

Angel put his face very close. “This isn’t your goddamn business. Stay out of it.”

“I don’t care who you shag, Peaches. Fuck the whole lot of them if you like. Blake’d bend over for you in a second.”

Liam was probably the sort whose face went all red when he was angry, back when he was human. Now he just pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “Don’t do this, William,” he spat.

“Not doing anything.” Spike leered in a way he knew infuriated his grandsire.

Angel growled like an angry Rottweiler and his hands clenched into fists. Spike braced himself for a blow. Waited for it. But then Angel only roared inchoately and spun about and marched back outside.

 

***

 

Spike felt like a right ponce.

He’d spent nearly half an hour dithering over what to wear before deciding on the new outfit he’d acquired. Then he’d painted his nails black and took forever messing about with his hair, wishing desperately for a reflection. He’d smeared a bit of eyeliner on, then swore and washed it off. He put on three wide rings and the chain with the thick silver links.

He reminded himself a hundred times that he was not a seventeen-year-old girl and this was _not_ a sodding date.

Then he painted his eyes again.

He told himself he was just walking quietly, but the truth was, he slunk down the stairs and across the lobby. Not quietly enough though, because just before he made it out the door, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Spike spun about.

Angel had mended in the three days since he’d returned from Canada. His clothing was impeccable, if boring, and his hair was back in all its gelled glory. He looked Spike slowly up and down.

“What?” Spike finally exclaimed, hoping he sounded belligerent instead of defensive.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your bloody business, is it?”

Angel took a step back and crossed his arms on his chest. “You’re all...dressed up.”

“So? Maybe I’ve somewhere to go more interesting than this morgue.” He waved his arms about a bit.

“Are you...seeing someone, Spike?”

“No. But what if I was?”

“Who is it?”

Spike had a sudden and vivid mental image of Angel sitting down at a table with Trevor and telling the man every stupid thing Spike had done for the past 150 years. The two of them laughing at him. Trevor leaning back in his chair and saying, “So, Angel, why don’t you tell me what a _real_ vampire’s existence is like.”

Spike growled at Angel and marched out into the night. Angel didn’t try to follow.

Trevor had given Spike his address and careful directions, which was good because the house was in some bloody canyon or other, in one of those neighborhoods where you couldn’t see the houses themselves; only their tall, ornate gates. Spike brought the Valiant to a halt in front of what he reckoned was the right gate and pressed the buzzer. Trevor’s voice came out through the intercom. “Hey, Spike. Glad you made it.” The gate clicked open and Spike drove through.

The drive twisted around some trees and a few hillocks, so Spike didn’t see the house at first. When the structure did come into view, he whistled. It was a mansion, a sprawling modern thing that was all glass and steel.

Trevor was waiting for him outside the enormous front doors, wearing a pair of smart wool trousers and a thin navy jumper. He waved at Spike, who pulled the car to a halt. “You can just park right there,” Trevor called. Spike nodded and got out.

Trevor trotted over and flung an arm about Spike in one of those masculine embraces. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show the place off.”

Trevor had to give Spike a formal invitation at the door, of course, but he did so cheerfully. They entered directly into an enormous living room, all bright, open space, and along one wall a fireplace big enough to roast a pig. The furniture matched the house: sleek, modern, expensive. Trevor tugged at Spike until they found themselves in the kitchen, which rivaled a good restaurant’s in size and equipment.

“I don’t even cook,” Trevor laughed, heading for the fridge. “But the place came like this, so....” He stuck his head into the fridge, rooted about for a moment, and then emerged with a glass carafe full of thick red liquid.

Spike’s eyebrows rose.

“You want some?” Trevor asked, waving the carafe a bit. “I’ve got a friend at the hospital, and he promised me this stuff was fresh. Um, the labels said it was A-Positive. Is that okay? I don’t know if it makes a difference.”

“A-Pos is lovely,” Spike replied.

“You like it cold? Or body temp, maybe?”

“Warmed.”

Trevor fetched an oversize green mug and filled it with blood, then popped it into the microwave. A few seconds later, he handed it to Spike.

“Cheers,” Spike said and took a sip. It was fresh. Very.

Trevor watched him drink without any trace of disgust on his handsome face. “So, does all blood taste the same?”

“No. Human’s different to animal, of course. But then, each human is unique. Depends on their diet, their health, all that.”

“Like different provenances of wine.”

Spike nodded. “Yeah. More or less.”

“Cool!”

“Ta for the nosh.”

“Hey, I try to be a good host, you know. Do you want some more, or maybe some scotch? Or how about the two-penny tour.”

Spike set his empty mug down on the granite countertop and smiled. “Guide away.”

It took some time to see the entire house. As the tour progressed, Spike felt himself relaxing more, enjoying Trevor’s easy company, laughing at the man’s small jokes. They peeked outside at the swimming pool—it had one of those infinity edges, with a view of the city, and the water sparkled prettily. Then they went back inside, through the living room, and into a smaller space that Trevor called his media room. Most of one wall was taken up by a huge screen; a whole flock of speakers hung from the ceiling and there was a bar in the back, lit up in blue.

Spike sat on one of the sinfully comfortable sofas while Trevor fussed about in the bar; a moment later, Trevor sat next to him and handed him a glass of amber liquid. Trevor himself had his usual bottle of ale. He picked up a remote control that looked complicated enough to run a television network, and punched at the buttons. The lights dimmed, sound roared through the speakers, and the screen lit up.

Trevor had promised him an action film, something with bloody murders and car chases and girls in skimpy clothing. Spike couldn’t recall the name of the thing. And although he was enjoying the film, he wasn’t really keeping track of the plot either. There was certainly loads of fast movement, and there were explosions and crashes ,and flashes of bare skin; but he couldn’t have said who the actors were, or the names of any of the characters, or even what anyone in the film was trying to do. It was all a sort of noisy blur, albeit a fascinating one.

And then, well, things got even fuzzier. Somehow Trevor’s arm was around Spike’s shoulders, warm and heavy. And then they were kissing, Trevor’s beer-tasting tongue inside of Spike’s mouth. A flash—lost time?—and they were in a bedroom on a bed, and Spike was naked and Trevor was _in_ him, and Spike wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to say he didn’t _want_ this, except he did, or at least a part of him did, and in any case he couldn’t seem to make his mouth work properly; and then his mouth was working, but only to make animal grunts and mewls and then a howl as he climaxed.

The world seemed to sharpen up again shortly after. His clothing was back on and he was standing near the front door. He could almost have imagined the entire incident never happened, except his arse was sore and he felt sticky and...used. Spike blinked up at Trevor, who clapped him amiably on the shoulder. “That was fun, Spike. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

“But...but....”

“Hey, you’d better hurry. Sunrise is early this time of year.”

And Spike was back in the Valiant, waiting for the gate to open and let him out.

 

***

Spike woke up that afternoon with the smell of another man all over him. In him. He leapt out of his bed as if it were on fire and ran into the loo, turned on the shower tap as hot as it would go, and stood under the steaming water for a very long time.

He didn’t understand what had happened the night before.

He wasn’t attracted to blokes. He certainly didn’t want to be buggered by one. But Trevor was only human, and couldn’t have forced Spike to do anything if he was truly unwilling. And Spike had enjoyed it. Not just his body, although his body had thrummed under Trevor’s touches like a well-tuned guitar. But also something within himself. His soul, perhaps? His psyche? He didn’t know. Whatever it was, he had felt used and taken and _possessed_ the previous night. And he had liked that very much.

Nearly parboiled, Spike finally turned off the water. He toweled dry and pulled on some clothing—his old jeans and a tee, _not_ the outfit Trevor had bought him—and headed downstairs.

Everyone was gathered in the lounge again, looking unhappy. They appeared to be waiting for Yuri to find something on the computer. When Spike entered the room Angel scowled, but continued pacing back and forth, not saying anything.

“What’s the crisis du jour, kiddies?” Spike asked. “Nothing good on sale at Hot Topic?”

There were a few rolled eyes in response, but that was all until Rudy perhaps took pity on him. “Yuri thinks he’s found a pattern that worries him.”

“A pattern?”

Rudy nodded. “In demon attacks.”

Yuri swiveled around on his chair. “There have been more attacks than usual lately.”

Spike shrugged. “Happens. Full moon or summat.”

“But they are not random. I am finding news articles now. I think attacks happen in...in cluster, yes? “ His earnest face scrunched up in concentration. “Where is Angel, is more demons.”

It was Spike’s turn to frown. “You mean, they’re targeting him? ‘T’s nothing new, is it? Demons can’t resist the pouf.”

“But none of these have been very dangerous,” Angel said. “Some of them have even been pretty peaceful types. Like last night, we got jumped by a pod of Kreggers. Kreggers!”

That was odd, Spike had to admit. Kreggers generally seemed more interested in collecting junk mail to line their nests than they did in harming anyone. “Have you been using a new cologne, Liam?”

Angel huffed at him. “I think they’re trying to distract us.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know!” Angel sounded so angry, Spike half-expected his grandsire to start pummeling him. But Angel didn’t, instead spinning about and stomping off toward the opposite end of the room.

All right. A new scheme. Perhaps a new apocalypse. Same old, same old. Spike sauntered over to a vacant chair and threw himself down.

He stayed for several hours, through the afternoon and into the evening, as the others went round and round, speculating about the newest crisis. They all shot him curious looks now and then, as if they were wondering why he was there, but mostly they ignored him. He concluded pretty quickly that none of them had the faintest idea what was going on and he certainly didn’t have anything to add, but he listened. He didn’t fancy going out that night.

When everyone was frustrated and knackered, the group broke up. Some of them mentioned something about dancing and left the Hyperion. Rudy said he was going to go act like a detective and see if he could dig any information up. And Lilia grabbed Angel’s hand and dragged the big vampire toward the stairs. Angel gave Spike an odd look—part threat, part something Spike couldn’t identify—and allowed himself to be towed away.

Spike felt restless. For a time, he went up to his room and tried to watch the telly. Nothing was on though, at least nothing that held his attention for more than a few minutes. He moved about his small room like a caged cat, picking things up, putting them down. He fetched a paper and pen and began to write, but crumpled the paper into a tight ball when he realized his poetry was even more horrible than usual.

At close to two in the morning, he admitted it to himself. He was craving Trevor, the way an addict craves a hit. “Bloody _hell_!” he shouted and swept an innocent lamp off his chest of drawers, smashing the thing to bits.

A while later, he skinned off his jeans and lay down on the bed and began to wank. He tried to think of Buffy, of Dru, of Harmony, of some of the other birds he’d shagged over the years. But what kept flashing into his head were images of Trevor, grinning at him, dripping sweat onto him as he fucked him, casually suggesting another round.

With a roar of rage, Spike flung himself out of bed. He yanked his trousers on over his aching erection and stomped off in search of alcohol.

 

***

 

Spike knew he was love’s bitch. And he knew his choices had been beyond foolish. What kind of idiot vampire falls for a Slayer? His track record was lamentably poor.

But at least his previous choices had been understandable, to a point. They were beautiful and powerful. Dru had plucked him out of miserable, plodding obscurity and given him eternity. She’d made him the monster that he was. And Buffy, even when she hated him, long before the soul, had brought out the best in him, had made him feel like he was still a man.

This thing with Trevor mystified him. Not just because Trevor was a bloke, because Spike was willing to admit that perhaps—_perhaps_—he’d play for the other side, for the right bloke. But there was nothing extraordinary about Trevor. He was handsome, but Spike could have found an even more handsome man within minutes, nearly anywhere in this city. He was rich, but Spike didn’t admire all those toys and perqs as more than passing amusements. Spike had been enjoying his friendship, to be sure, but that wasn’t the same as love.

And in any case, Spike didn’t love Trevor. He...needed him. Needed to belong to him. To serve him.

And that was just batshit barmy.

Spike decided that this entire incident was a brief moment of insanity. A flashback to his newly souled days perhaps, or a bit of a legacy from Dru. He would just ignore it and it would go away.

As soon as the sun set, Spike marched resolutely out of the hotel and to his car. He growled when he realized he could smell Trevor even there, as if the man’s scent had worked its way into the threadbare upholstery. Then he started the ignition and, with his jaw set in defiance, drove to Vesuvius.

When Spike saw that Trevor wasn’t there, an unnerving mixture of relief and disappointment swept through him. He sat in his usual seat and ordered his usual Jack from Sallee and made a point of admiring her twitching pink tail. He drank and he watched the other demons and he tried to keep his mind as carefully blank as possible.

He did not flinch when Trevor sank into the chair opposite him.

“Hey, Spike,” Trevor said with his usual smile, as if he hadn’t fucked Spike at all. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Spike said, which was a complete lie.

Trevor’s smile didn’t dim. “Glad to hear it.” Sallee came by just then with a bottle of ale, which she plunked onto the table before walking away. Trevor took a long sip. He was dressed tonight like a Brooks Brothers model—gray trousers, white and blue checked shirt, charcoal jumper tied about his neck.

“What do you want?” Spike asked wearily.

The other man shrugged. “Just hoping for some company. Thought you might be too. I mean, company other than Angel and his gang. They’re back, right?”

“Forget bloody Angel!” Spike shouted, making a few nearby patrons turn and stare. He glared at them.

Trevor smiled on, unperturbed. “How about we head over to my place?”

Spike didn’t want to. Didn’t want anything to do with this bloke. “All right,” he said, and stood.

They took separate cars, Spike following the taillights obediently even as the gate swung open and they entered the familiar driveway. Trevor pulled his BMW around the side of the house, most likely to the garage entrance, and Spike parked near the front door. He stood outside uncertainly for a few minutes, wondering why the hell he was there, when the front door opened and Trevor called to him. “Come on, Spike!” Compliantly, Spike did.

Once inside the house, Trevor didn’t bother with the niceties of drinks or tours or films. He simply led the way to a bedroom—Spike had the idea it was a guest room, and not Trevor’s own—and within moments Spike was naked and on his knees, unzipping Trevor’s posh trousers.

Spike didn’t feel as fuzzy as he had last time. In fact, his impressions of what he was permitting Trevor to do to his body were dismayingly clear. But the fact was, he was permitting them, was wanting them even while he hated them. He was fairly certain that he would have begged for them if Trevor had asked him to, and he was profoundly grateful that Trevor didn’t.

Hours later, as Spike limped back to his car, he turned and looked at Trevor, who was as blandly happy as always. “What are you _doing_ to me?” Spike asked plaintively.

“Nothing you don’t want. Pretty sure that was you screaming for more, a little while ago.”

“But—” How, Spike was going to ask. Or perhaps, why. But Trevor went back inside, and Spike heard the lock engage.

Angel was hovering in the lobby again, this time deeply in discussion with Rudy and Lilia. They all watched Spike as he entered the hotel, their eyes tracking him as he made his way across the lobby. He had just put his foot on the first stair when Angel called, “Spike!”

Wearily, Spike turned and looked at them. “What?”

“What have you been up to?”

Spike closed his eyes. He felt ridiculously as if he might burst into tears. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been going somewhere. A lot. And you smell…strange.”

“Cheers. Sorry I’m not up to your cleanliness standards, Peaches. I’ll make sure and buy some of that poncy soap you fancy so much. ‘Course, you don’t smell of the soap now yourself.” He leered and cut his eyes pointedly toward Lilia.

But Angel didn’t take the bait. “I swear, William, if you’re behind these demon attacks—”

“Oi! Soul now, remember? And mine doesn’t fall off as easily as yours, either. Haven’t done a single evil thing since Sunnydale, which is more than you can say, innit?” Truthfully, he was hurt that after all this time, after all the blood he had shed at Angel’s side, his grandsire still doubted him.

Angel scowled. “I know you’re up to something.”

Spike sighed. “Went out. Had a few drinks. Now I’m off to bed.” Angel didn’t need to know about the bit in between. It was none of his affair.

Spike didn’t wait for a response; he made his way up the stairs as quickly as his aching body would allow. He reckoned a hot bath before bedtime would be brilliant.

 

[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/193217.html) 

 

 

  
   
   
   
   



	5. </strong> Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[parallax](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/parallax), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
_   
**Parallax (5/8)**   
_

  
**Title:** Parallax  
**Chapter: **(5/8)  
**Characters:** Spike, Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** Dub-con, angst  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.  
**A/N:** Thank you to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for another awesome banner!  Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/profile)[**plot_wout_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/) . 

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Parallax&filter=all).  
  
  
 

**  
Five  
**

 

He didn’t go back to Vesuvius. Didn’t go to The Spit either, or any other bars for that matter. He bought his bottles of Jack at a liquor store and drank them in his room, alone. One evening he caught himself sniffing the black shirt that Trevor had bought him, inhaling the man’s lingering scent, and he’d roared with rage and gathered his new clothing and run downstairs and then outside with it, stuffing it in the dustbin. An hour or so later he’d nearly cried with despair. He’d run back down again and retrieved the clothing, clutching it to his chest. Angel had watched both acts of the drama without saying anything, his eyes flat and distrustful.

Spike didn’t go out with Angel and his crew, either. He’d considered it. Certainly they seemed busy enough, and they could likely use another strong fighter. But when Spike hung about in the lounge as they plotted their strategies, nobody spoke to him, nobody even looked at him much. Angel never asked Spike to join them, and Spike couldn’t bury his pride deep enough to offer.

After nearly two weeks of this nonsense, Spike felt nearly as mad as he’d been in the basement, torn by conflicting desires he didn’t want and couldn’t fulfill. So he waited for the hotel to empty and he pulled on his boots and duster, and he went for a walk. He didn’t set out with a particular destination in mind, at least not consciously, but after a time he recognized where he was going. It was a dodgy sort of neighborhood, the sort that housed auto repair shops and check cashing businesses and derelict used car lots, and was usually fairly empty at night.

Empty of humans, in any case. Because this was the sort of area in which certain sorts of demons liked to hide out. Vampires who were saving a meal for later perhaps, or other creatures who wished to go about their business without detection or interference.

Sure enough, as he walked down the deserted, trash-strewn pavement Spike caught a whiff of Sseca demon. He hadn’t encountered the species in decades, but his past encounters had been memorable. Sseca were large and strong and vicious. Although they generally tended to keep to themselves, they went through a molting process periodically, and after they molted they needed human flesh. A Sseca located this deeply in a city was doubtless hungry.

The scent was fresh. Spike followed it across a cracked and weedy car park, down an alley next to a defunct restaurant, and over a half-crumbled wall. He found himself in front of a large metal shed. Beneath the liberally applied graffiti, the exterior of the shed had been painted over a dozen times in a wide variety of colors, all of which had faded or chipped or rusted. There were two windows—both with the glass broken out, but in one the gap was filled with cardboard. The door was closed, but the padlock had been broken.

Spike hadn’t been particularly quiet as he’d tracked the demon. Now he shouted out, “Oi! Show me your ugly mug!”

For a moment there was no response. And then the shed door was flung open and a Sseca charged out, its orange eyes glaring and its tusks glinting dully. It didn’t waste time with banter—Spike hadn’t expected it to—but headed straight at him, emitting a high-pitched screech. It moved surprisingly quickly for something that weighed nearly as much as a small car. Spike shifted his face. Just as he crouched into a fighting stance, a second demon came running out of the shed.

“Oh, bollocks,” Spike barely had time to mumble, and then they were on him.

As sharp talons gouged his flesh, Spike belatedly recalled that there was one other occasion when Sseca craved people as food—when they were breeding. Well, nothing to be done about it now, and he ignored the pain as he wheeled and kicked and hit and rolled.

Ever since the fall of Wolfram &amp; Hart, when Spike found himself in the position of having bit off more than he could chew—an apt metaphor, he thought, spitting out a vile mouthful of Sseca—he had rung Angel on his mobile, and Angel had come to back him up. Spike had done the same for Angel, now and then. But tonight Spike hadn’t even bothered to bring his phone, and he wasn’t certain Angel would have come in any case. Even if he had, he would have made a huge point later of how he’d once again saved Spike’s useless arse, and Spike couldn’t bear to hear that any longer. He’d rather just dust.

So he fought on alone because retreat was out of the question, and the Sseca tore him to bits.

Fortunately, he returned the favor.

In the end he was still undead, which was more than could be said for the mangled heaps that had once been Sseca demons. But Spike was weakened, and he fell to his knees beside the corpses and contemplated the impossibility of getting back to the Hyperion before dawn. With few other options, he crawled into the reeking shed and pulled the door shut behind him. He lay down on the hard concrete floor and curled into a small ball around his pain.

 

***

It was a very long day.

Bits of light stole in through cracks in the shed walls, and Spike had to keep creeping about to avoid them. He hurt and he was hungry and he was concerned that someone would find the dead demons and then discover him. He slept fitfully, his dreams filled with horned monsters and men with shiny white teeth and people chasing him with stakes and axes.

He roused himself when the sun set. With considerable difficulty he struggled to his feet using the walls of the shed for support, and then staggered outside. There was nobody about and that, he expected, was at least one small mercy.

Only a few blocks on, as he stumbled and fell for the third time, he realized that there was no way he was going to make it back to the hotel. He rolled over onto his back and groaned. All right, then. This wasn’t as heroic a way to go out as last time, but it wasn’t much worse than a dirty London alley.

But just as he closed his eyes, he became aware that a dog was barking. Very close, in fact. He opened his eyes again.

He had collapsed alongside a chain-link fence, behind which was a collection of rusted and partly disassembled vehicles. The dog was behind the fence as well. It was a pitbull, white with brownish spots. Its muzzle was covered in old scars and one eye was missing. Its fur was patchy and its ribs too prominent. It snarled at him, stupidly guarding the property of an owner who didn’t even bother to care for the dog properly.

One more time, Spike hauled himself upright. He looked up at the top of the fence. Not only was it crowned with razor wire, but in his current condition it might as well have been a hundred feet high. So instead he found the gate, which was only a few yards away. It was secured by a padlocked latch, but the latch was old and slightly loose. Evidently, the owner was trusting primarily in his dog to keep thieves away. Even in his debilitated state, Spike had no problem breaking the latch.

As soon as the door squealed open, the dog attacked. It managed to get in a single, nasty bite to Spike’s chest. But he was already in such bad shape that it hardly mattered, and Spike bit back, sinking his fangs into the dog’s thick neck.

The dog struggled only for a moment and then went limp. Spike crouched beside it, swallowing rapidly, feeling his wounds begin to mend straight away. The dog’s heart slowed and faltered, it let out a single sigh that seemed almost relieved, and then it was dead. Spike drank the last of its blood and stood. Feeling rather guilty about maiming the body, but not wanting anyone to realize what had killed the beast, he found a length of metal and thrust it into the dog’s neck. He hoped that the owner would assume the deed had been done by a would-be thief.

The blood gave him enough strength to get home, but barely. Angel and Lilia came out of the lounge as Spike lurched through the lobby. “Where the hell have you been? And what the fuck happened to you?”

“Sod off,” Spike began to say. But then his knees betrayed him entirely and he fell to the hard tile floor. Angel and Lilia walked closer and loomed over him.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Angel said.

Spike was only dimly aware of being lifted in strong arms and carried up many stairs, and then of being dropped onto his bed. Someone stripped off his clothing and exclaimed over his wounds, and someone held a mug of blood to his mouth—cow, but warm—and he drank and he drank, and then he slept.

 

***

Spike barely got out of bed for the next two or three days. Occasionally he’d stagger over to his little fridge and grab a container of blood and chug it cold, then make his way back to the mattress and collapse. He was dimly aware that the door to his room opened a few times—someone looking in on him—but nobody entered. Mostly, Spike slept like the dead.

When he finally felt most of his strength return, he grimaced at the condition of his body and the sheets, which were liberally covered in his own dried blood and in flaking Sseca goo. He would have a nice long soak, but he was going to have to throw out the bedding. Not a problem. He could nick more from Angel.

Cleaned and dressed and feeling himself again—well, as much as he ever did lately—he made his way down the stairs. For once, the gang was gathered in the lobby instead of the lounge, Angel pacing restlessly back and forth, the others standing about or sprawled on the round seat. Angel glanced at Spike when he arrived and grunted what could have been either a greeting or an expression of mild annoyance. Spike hoisted himself up onto the old reception desk and sat there with his feet dangling. “What’s the what, then?” he asked. “Crisis du jour?”

It was Rudy who answered, either because he was leaning against the desk and therefore closest, or because he tolerated Spike the best of the lot. “Same problem as before. Lots of weird demon activity. It’s like someone’s deliberately trying to draw us out, to keep us on edge.”

“Why?”

Angel stopped pacing to glare at him. “We don’t _know_, moron. That’s what we’re trying to figure out. If we knew why, we could find out who.”

“Perhaps it’s just someone taken with your sparkling personality,” Spike said, which earned him a deeper frown. “You keep that up, Peaches, and your face is going to freeze like that.”

Angel balled his hand into a fist and took three steps closer, then stopped. “Forget it. I’m going to fight something worth fighting.” He turned toward the door and his entourage gathered themselves to follow.

Spike hopped off the desk and joined the crowd, but Angel halted again and put his hand out. “You’re not coming.”

“Why? Did I hurt your sensitive feelings?” Although the truth was, Spike himself was hurt by yet another rejection.

“I don’t want you fighting tonight.”

“Fuck you.”

Angel huffed out a breath of air. “You’re not all the way healed. I don’t want to have to worry about dragging your ass out of the fire if we run into something nasty tonight.”

Spike sucked in his upper lip and stuck out his chin. “Right, then,” he said, and he turned around and headed back for the stairs.

It turned out his liquor supply was completely depleted. But that didn’t worry him. He simply went to Angel’s suite; it was locked, but the lock was easily forced. The room smelled of sex. Spike stomped over to the bed and opened the bedside table and found what he’d been looking for: a nearly full bottle of Lagavulin. “Not Irish?” he mumbled to himself. He took the bottle back to his own room and drained it dry.

[Chapter Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/193399.html)

 

 

 

 

  



	6. </strong> Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[parallax](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/parallax), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
_   
**Parallax (6/8)**   
_

  
**Title:** Parallax  
**Chapter: **6/8  
**Characters:** Spike, Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** Dub-con, angst  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.  
**A/N:** Thank you to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for another awesome banner!  Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/profile)[**plot_wout_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/) . 

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Parallax&filter=all).

 

**  
Six  
**

 

“Huh. Were we supposed to get together tonight? ‘Cause I don’t remember that.” Trevor stood in the doorway of his house, looking Spike up and down.

Spike shifted from foot to foot uneasily. He didn’t like the way the leather trousers clung to him as if they were still something living. He didn’t like any of this. Not able to meet Trevor’s eyes, he looked down at the ground. “No,” he admitted quietly.

Trevor lifted a single eyebrow. “Then…?”

Spike’s throat felt thick, like he was choking on something. He swallowed. “Please,” he said.

The other man seemed to consider for a very long time. Finally, he said, “Well, I kind of had other plans. But…okay.” And he stepped aside and motioned Spike in. But when Spike had taken only a step or two, Trevor stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You know, I like the look of you in those clothes. But I like the look of you out of them even more. Inside my house, I want you in your birthday suit. Or, uh, deathday, I guess.” He chuckled at his own joke and then waited.

Had Spike been able, he would have flushed with humiliation. But all he did was slowly remove his clothing, leaving it in a sad pile near the door. Then Trevor grinned and ruffled his hair. “Come on, Spike. Let’s go play.”

Trevor used him for hours, until Spike was as bruised and sore and completely exhausted as if he’d been fighting. When Trevor was finished—and even through his haze of self-hatred and confusion, Spike had to admire the bloke’s endurance—he had Spike kneel at his feet while Trevor did something on his laptop and played with Spike’s hair.

Finally, Trevor shut the computer with a small snap and set it beside him. He stood and stretched and yawned. “Time to hit the hay. Go home, Spike.”

Spike looked up at him, the suppressed tears prickling his eyes. “Please,” he said, his voice as broken as he was. “What are you bloody doing to me?”

“Told ya. Playing.” And Trevor pulled him to his feet and pushed him gently toward the front door. He waited while Spike slowly put his clothing back on.

Spike made it to his car and out the gate and halfway down the road through the canyon before he had to stop the car. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. In a hundred and fifty years, he’d never felt so lost.

 

***

 

Spike decided to stop kidding himself. As soon as the sun set the next night, he was back in his car, heading back into the sodding canyon. Angel had been in the Hyperion lobby and had watched him leave. Spike had wanted to stop, to tell him he wouldn’t be returning, but he knew his grandsire would only express pleasure over it and so, in the end, they didn’t exchange a word.

Trevor didn’t say anything when he opened his door, either. He simply waited, blank-faced, while Spike shucked his clothing and then sank to his knees. The floor was marble, cold and hard. Trevor’s voice was cold and hard as well. “What do you want, Spike?”

“I want…God…I don’t _want_ this!”

“But here you are. Again. Uninvited.”

Spike shook his head and closed his eyes. “I need this. I need…need you.”

“Need me to what?”

“Own me. Use me. Keep me.”

Unexpectedly, Trevor crowed with laughter, the peals of it ringing off the walls and high ceiling and echoing back. He bent down and grabbed Spike’s bicep and yanked him to his feet. “Come on, Spikey. I want to tell you a story.”

Spike padded pliantly after him, through the living room and up the stairs, then through a door Spike had paid little attention to previously. He’d reckoned it was a cupboard. But it wasn’t. It was actually a small, claustrophobic room, the walls lined with a dark, reddish wood, the floor covered in a very thick brown carpet. The room contained a small shelf with a few books on it, a black leather armchair, a tiny table with a lamp. And a wooden pedestal, perhaps four feet high. It was ornately carved with trees and leaves and the faces of monsters and gods. On top of the pedestal lay a cube of what might have been polished obsidian.

When Spike had first met Trevor, that night a few months back in Vesuvius, Spike had noticed an odd scent to the man, very faint. He’d almost recognized it then, but he’d been distracted and had soon forgotten about it completely. But the odor was much stronger in this room—it filled the small space like smoke—and now Spike had no trouble at all realizing what it was.

Magic.

Trevor sank down into the chair and tugged sharply on Spike’s wrist. Automatically, Spike folded onto the floor, sitting so that he was leaning against Trevor’s legs like a good little slave. And as if reading his thoughts, Trevor said, “You know what? I think we’ve now reached a point where you can call me Master. Right?”

“Yes, Master,” Spike whispered.

“Good boy. Now, I was gonna tell you a tale. I told you I’m from Chicagoland, right? The ‘burbs. Romeoville. About as white-bread as you can possibly imagine. Dad was a high school math teacher and Mom was a housewife. Totally boring and normal. I did Boy Scouts and Little League and Dad drove a Pontiac and Mom went to PTA meetings. I went to Joliet Junior College, majored in business. Mom and Dad wanted me to go on and get a bachelor's degree, but I wasn’t into it. Instead I moved to California, where this guy I knew was starting a company on this newfangled Internet thing.”

Trevor stopped and tilted his head. “Know what? I’m thirsty. Run downstairs and fetch me a Pale Ale.”

Spike obeyed at once, rising back to his feet and trotting down the hall and then down the stairs and into the kitchen. He considered getting a bottle for himself as well, but Master hadn’t told him he could, so he just grabbed the one and he ran back up.

But Trevor frowned when Spike handed him the bottle. “Didn’t take the top off, Spikey. No opener up here. Why don’t you put that vampire strength to good use?” He gave the bottle back, and Spike removed the lid. He almost enjoyed the way the metal dug into his fingers, because he needed to be punished for not thinking more carefully about Master’s needs.

Trevor took a long pull of beer and waved Spike back onto the rug.

“So there I was in Silicon Valley, and we were making some money. Everyone was making money then. You could’ve proposed the startup to sell shit on the Web---www.buyshit.com—and the investors would’ve shoved each other out of the way to be the first to hand you buckets of green. But what’s the point of being moderately well off if everyone else is moderately well off, too? It was like San Jose was just a more upscale version of Romeoville. I wanted to be different. Unique! To have something nobody else did.

“Like I said before, one of the companies I was involved with sold herbal crap. That’s how I learned about vampires and everything else that goes bump in the night. And I was intrigued, I gotta say. This was different. This was nothing I’d seen back in Will County.”

Spike had no idea of the point of this monologue. Of course, it wasn’t his place to question Master, so he only leaned against Master’s warm legs and listened.

“Now, at first I just did a little random exploration of the supernatural. Just trying to see what was out there. Hell, for all I knew the Easter Bunny and Santa were real, right? And as I’m poking around, I meet this guy. A magician. A warlock or wizard, I guess. And we got to talking, and he told me about some of the stuff he could do, and I asked him a bunch of questions, and it was really cool.”

He paused to chug a few more swallows.

“And finally he offered me a deal. He had this…thing. A talisman. Really powerful. If used properly, it allows its owner to, well, exert his will over things. Nothing too flashy, you understand, and it takes concentration. But with the talisman a guy could, for example, make sure that a club has his favorite beer, or that a bouncer lets him in, or that his finances don’t take a nosedive when the dot-com bubble bursts. Given enough time and work, a guy could get a lot of things he wanted.” He reached over and carded his fingers in Spike’s hair, tugging gently.

“Now this wizard guy, he couldn’t use the talisman himself because he made it. Some kind of stupid magical law, I guess. But he could sell it. He didn’t want money, either. He wanted something else, something he needed for some other spell he was doing. He wanted a human soul.”

Spike snapped his head up to look at Master, who grinned easily and shrugged. “Hey, I wasn’t really using it, so why not?”

“You sold your _soul_?” Spike remembered all he had gone through to win his back, and he shuddered.

“It was worth it.” Trevor finished off his ale. “My money bought me the house and car and stuff, but mansions and Beemers are a dime a dozen in LA. I still wanted something nobody else has. Something special.”

Spike nearly collapsed with despair, having a pretty good idea what Master was going to say next.

“A vampire with a soul,” Master said. “I liked the irony of it—the monster has what the human lacks. The beauty that conceals the killer. The predator as prey. And, I learned, only two of them in the whole world and they’re right in my back yard.

“But now, here’s where I faced a problem. I told you: I wanted something nobody else has, or could have. And there are two of you.”

If Spike could have sunk any deeper into the pit, he would have. But he only closed his eyes and sighed.

Master jiggled his legs a bit. “My first plan was to just get rid of the extra. And you were easier to catch, so I figured I’d get you and eliminate Angel. Subtly, because outright killing is kind of hard with the talisman, and I can’t change myself, make myself magically strong enough to defeat a vamp or anything.”

“So you set demons after him.”

“Yep,” Master said proudly. “Lots of ‘em. I just kinda…wanted them to attack him, or do things to lure him into fights. Worked like a charm.” He laughed. “But the stubborn bastard isn’t dust yet, is he?”

“No,” Spike whispered.

“No. And anyway, I’ve recently had a change of heart. I’ve been thinking, having just the one of you, it’s kind of like having a single diamond cufflink. Nice enough, but not nearly as useful, as valuable, as having a pair.”

“He won’t come to you, not like I did.” Spike managed to get a bit of hostility in his voice as he said it, but he knew it was true. Angel would never have fallen for this bloke’s ruse.

“I know,” Master said. “Besides, playing the same game twice, that’s boring. I have something else entirely in mind for Angel. And you know what? You’re gonna help.”

 

***

 

He tried not to think very much. It almost worked. He could sort of shut off his brain, the world whirling about him like so much static. Master seemed to fancy giving him loads of small tasks to do—sorting laundry, cleaning toilets, fetching drinks, that sort of thing—because apparently the concept of a souled vampire houseboy appealed to him as much as a souled vampire sex slave. Spike didn’t mind these chores really, because they’d occupy the bit of his mind where the static couldn’t quite reach, the bit that was still lucid.

But often Master wouldn’t give him anything to do at all, aside from groveling at Master’s feet; and most days Master would fuck him at least once, and during those times Spike’s awareness was distressingly clear.

Master had a primarily nocturnal lifestyle. Spike didn’t know if that had anything to do with the vampire now in the house, or if Master was simply a night person. During the day, Master slept in his own huge bed, which had an enormous pile of pillows and poncy bedding Angel would have envied. Spike slept in another room, in the walk-in closet. Master had given him an air mattress but no blankets, and the air conditioning chilled Spike’s bare skin.

Master didn’t restrain Spike. Not when Master slept, not even when he went somewhere, leaving Spike alone in the house. No restraints were necessary and Master knew it. Spike was incapable of leaving, would have thrown himself to the ground and begged to be let back in if Master had made him go.

Spike had tried to destroy the talisman once. He’d got as far as touching the obsidian cube. But as soon as his fingers made contact with the smooth black side, a bolt of agonizing pain shot through his body and he dropped to the floor. For hours he lay there, completely paralyzed, his legs twisted uncomfortably beneath him. Master came home eventually and discovered him, and clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Ah, Spikey. Of course it’s warded. Anybody but me touches it and, well…this is what happens. Frozen until I release. And I might as well tell you now, if you try to harm me—and I doubt you can bring yourself to do it—you’re back in the same frozen boat.” He looked down at Spike, tilting his head as if he were considering the proper placement of a piece of furniture. “Know what? I think I’ll leave you like that a while, let you have some time to mull it over.” And Master did. For two days Spike was there, unable to do more than blink, until at last Master did something—Spike had no idea what—and Spike was able to move again. His muscles were so cramped that he screamed with pain when he first tried to move them.

So Spike didn’t try again.

Nearly a month passed. At least Spike reckoned it was a month—he’d mostly lost track of time. During those weeks, Master didn’t once mention Angel or whatever plans he had for adding Angel to his collection. Spike knew Master hadn’t forgotten about Angel, but Spike hoped that as the days passed, some brilliant solution would come to him, some way out of this terrible trap. None did.

And then one evening, after Master had showered and dressed and had made Spike kneel and tie his trainers, Master smiled down at him. “Know what? I hear through the demon grapevine that Angel’s been asking around after you a little.”

For the first time in ages, Spike felt the stirrings of something positive within himself. Not hope. He didn’t expect the Fanged Crusader to rescue him. But…comfort, perhaps. Some small amount of relief that his grandsire had noticed his disappearance, and hadn’t simply celebrated being rid of him. It was nice to know there was somebody in the world who would search for him a bit.

But Spike was shaken from these relatively pleasant thoughts when Master kicked lightly at him. “Come on, Spikey. Time to be bait.”

It felt odd to be wearing clothing again. Master had found him black jeans and a plain black tee, and he’d had Spike’s duster and Docs tucked away somewhere. Back in his normal uniform Spike should have felt like himself again; but he didn’t, and he wished Master had given him something else entirely.

Master gave Spike instructions. Spike listened, and felt his stomach clench and his throat tighten, not just because of what Master told him to do, but because Spike knew he’d do it.

Spike’s car was waiting for him in the drive, but he almost didn’t recognize it. All the holes and rust spots on the body were gone, and the exterior gleamed with pristine black paint. The interior had been redone as well: upholstery replaced, cracked and faded plastic dashboard restored like new. Spike wasn’t surprised when he turned the ignition and instead of its usual asthmatic cough, the engine emitted a deep, rumbling roar.

Master bent down to look through the open driver’s side window. “Can’t have my toys driving pieces of shit, now, can I? Told you—Diego and ‘Jandro, they’re the best. And they work cheap, too.” He grinned, then stood up straight. He slapped the car’s bonnet. “Hit the road, Spikey. I’ll see you soon.” And he went back inside the house.

 

***

 

Driving to the Hyperion was the hardest thing he’d ever done. The bits of him that were controlled by the bloody mojo didn’t want to leave Master, and the increasingly smaller bits that were still himself wanted no part in luring Angel. But he had no choice, so he drove. He actually went past the hotel at first, and he thought he’d keep on going until the sun came up and then this entire nightmare would be ended. But only a few blocks away the compulsion attacked him like a grip on his soul, and he screeched into a U-turn. The car shuddered to a halt right in front of the main entrance.

He’d walked to his death before. This was infinitely worse. But he made his way to the front doors and through them into a lobby that was mercifully empty. He could go up to his old room, right? Hide there.

But of course someone heard him—Derek, it was—and poked a head out of the lounge and goggled at him. Spike groaned to himself and stood still, waiting. Derek disappeared after a moment; there was a rustle of movement inside the lounge, and then a clot of people came rushing out, Angel at their lead. Angel came to a skidding halt a few feet away, and the others nearly tumbled over each other trying to stop as well.

“Spike!” Angel yelled. “What the fuck?! Where the hell have you been?”

Spike took a deep breath. Master had schooled him in this, of course. “I’ve been nearby.”

“Where? Why did you just disappear like that? Didn’t it occur to you that I might—” Angel snapped his own mouth shut so fast it made a loud popping noise. “We might have needed your help.”

For once, Spike didn’t want to goad Angel. But he had orders. “Thought I was useless, Peaches. You’ve said so yourself, repeatedly.”

“I didn’t….” Angel closed his eyes as if he were in pain, then opened them. “Forget it. Just, never mind. So are you sticking around now, or what?”

God, Spike had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted his sad, empty little room on the fourth floor, with his own bed and his own telly and his own Jack and fags. He wanted to get into stupid bloody arguments with Angel and stand at his side to fight the bad guys. He wanted— Oh, what did it matter what he wanted?

Instead of answering Angel’s question, Spike gave one of his own. “How’s the demon plot going, then? The one where they’re all after you.”

Angel shook his head. “They’ve stopped. Right about when you left, actually. Everything’s back to normal. Quieter, even.”

“And did you find out who was behind it?”

“No.” Angel’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Spike shrugged. “Because I might have an idea, that’s all.”

Distrust flooded Angel’s features. As well it might, Spike thought. “What do you know, William?” his grandsire asked in a low, quite Angelus-like voice.

“Not in front of this lot.” Spike jerked his head to the side. “There. In your office.”

After a brief pause, Angel nodded. The humans looked ready to argue—Lilia especially—but Angel rolled his eyes. “Go meet me in there, Spike. I’ll be there in a minute.”

So Spike did, and he sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk and waited, no doubt for Angel to placate his girl and the rest. It took longer than expected, and Spike decided he needed a drink. Master’s compulsion didn’t seem to be stopping that, so Spike stood and walked around the desk and went rooting inside for Angel’s good whiskey. What he found instead, though, was a small book bound in brown leather. An address book. He leafed through the pages, wondering who, exactly, his grandsire felt the need to keep in touch with.

The pages under “B” and “S” were blank. But then he saw a name that took his breath away. No address, just a phone number. An British phone number. Might be old, might not be valid any longer. But if it was still good…Christ.

Spike heard footsteps approaching and quickly jammed the book into his duster.

“What are you doing?” Angel demanded, slamming the door behind him.

“’M thirsty.”

“Look. I’m sick and goddamn tired of your stupid games. Tell me what you want and what you know, before I rip your head off that scrawny neck.”

“Right, then. Those demons were sent against you by a bloke who wanted you dust.”

“A human?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d he stop?”

Spike shrugged. “Doesn’t want you dust anymore.”

“Who the hell is he and where can I find him?”

“Can’t tell you who he is.” That was true—Master had forbidden it. “But I can tell you where.”

“Dandy. Tell.”

“Can’t. I’ll have to show you.”

“Fine. I’ll get everyone ready, and we’ll—”

“Not the rest. Just you. I’ll drive you there.”

Again, Angel narrowed his eyes skeptically. “I swear, if this is some kind of stupid joke….”

“’S no joke, mate.” And that was the truth as well.

In the end, Angel went into the lounge and exchanged more words with his minions—there was shouting but Spike didn’t attempt to make out the words—and then came storming into the lobby. “Let’s go,” he said, sweeping past.

As soon as he got in the car, Angel turned on Spike again. “Where’d you get the money to pour into this car?”

“Not really your business, is it? But I’ll tell you anyway. Didn’t pay for it. A…friend…had it done for me.” He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

“A ‘friend'? The one I smelled on you? I smell him now.”

Spike didn’t bother to answer.

“I thought you didn’t go for men, Spike. What’s the deal? You turned to whoring now?”

No, Spike could have said. Whores were generally voluntary and they got paid. But he didn’t say that. Instead he pasted on his best smirk. “I’ll wager I could make a good living at it, if I tried. This face, this body? Could make a bloody fortune.”

Angel snorted, but didn’t say anything more as Spike made his way toward the hills. In fact, neither of them said a word until Spike turned into Master’s driveway. Master had left the gate open, surely deliberately. Spike parked in his usual spot and got out of the car. So did Angel, looking along warily. “Where is this guy?” Angel asked.

“Inside, I expect. It’s his house.”

Just then, the door opened. Master was there in a pair of worn jeans and a Dodgers t-shirt, looking as run-of-the-mill as it was possible to look. He smiled at them both. “Angel?” he said.

Then several things happened very quickly. Angel vamped out and lunged for Master. At the same time, Master pulled a small gun from his pocket, pointed it at Angel, and pulled the trigger. He couldn’t have missed at that range. Angel didn’t even slow down. But before Angel could grab Master, Spike leapt, and he tackled Angel to the ground.

Angel struggled, and they rolled about a bit. The entire time Angel glared at Spike, his yellow eyes filled with fury and betrayal and perhaps a bit of hurt as well. They continued to fight.

Angel should have won. He was heavier and stronger, and he had won all of their fights for 130 years, with the exception of the one over that sodding cup. And in this case, Spike wanted him to win. In fact, Angel was winning. At first. But after only a few moments, Spike could feel the other vampire’s strength ebbing, the struggles diminishing. Soon they stopped altogether and Angel lay limply underneath him. Angel tried to say something but his words were too slurred to make out, and then his brown eyes dimmed and the lids fell shut.

Spike waited a second more, then stood and took a few steps away.

“Is he out?” Master asked.

Spike nodded.

“Well, then get him inside. Quick! That was enough etorphine to stop a whole herd of elephants, but I have the feeling it won’t last very long.”

Gingerly, Spike lifted Angel into his arms. He was heavy, and as limp as the newly dead. Master didn’t even look back to make sure Spike was following him—because of course Spike was—and he led the way to another room upstairs, this one next to Master’s own bedroom. The first time Spike had come to this house, when Master gave him the tour, it had been an ordinary bedroom. It still was, mostly. But now in addition to the usual bed and chest of drawers and so forth, it also contained a cage. The cage was made of thick metal bars and was perhaps six feet in each dimension. One side of it was hinged and standing open.

“Put him on the floor there,” Master ordered, pointing. Spike did, as gently as possible. “Take off his clothes,” Master said.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Spike peeled off Angel’s clothing until his grandsire wore nothing at all. Then at Master’s command, he moved Angel into the cage. He had to curl the big vampire’s body a bit to get him to fit. Master ordered Spike out of the cage, slammed it shut, and turned a key in the heavy lock. As Spike watched carefully, Master tossed the key onto the chest of drawers. “You’re not allowed to touch that key. Got it?”

“Yes, Master.”

Master gave a deeply satisfied smile. “You strip, too.”

Spike did so, unhappily but without hesitation. He had to bite his tongue when Master scooped up Angel’s clothing and his—including the duster that held the phone book—but was relieved when he saw Master simply dump the pile into the cupboard.

Master took Spike downstairs and had him kneel at his feet while Master worked on his computer. After a time, Spike heard yelling and roaring from upstairs. Master heard it as well, because he shut down the laptop and grinned at Spike. “Looks like it’s time to welcome the rest of the collection.”

They trooped back upstairs, Master with a bounce in his step, Spike with dread in his belly.

Angel was standing inside the cage, stooped a bit due to his height. He was wearing his demon face and was trying without any success to break the lock. He stopped as soon as he saw them. “Spike! What the _fuck_ is this?!”

Master stood—well out of reach of Angel’s arms, Spike noted—and clucked his tongue. “Language, Angel.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Well, Spikey calls me Master. Soon you will too.” Master frowned at Spike and gestured at the floor. Spike folded his legs and then hung his head so he wouldn’t have to see the look of disgust on Angel’s face.

“Spike? What are you doing, you treacherous little shit? Let me out of here!”

“Nobody’s letting you out of there for a while, sweetheart. Not until you want me as much as your progeny here does.”

But Spike didn’t want him at all. Needed him, yes, the way he needed blood, the way a human needs oxygen. But he definitely didn’t want him. Spike didn’t say so, of course. He kept his head bowed, concentrating on the fibers in the carpet.

“I’ll rip you both to pieces,” Angel said, his voice low and menacing. “I’ll feed you your own intestines.”

“No, you won’t. Although that’s very inventive of you. But you’ll stay in your nice, cozy little cage for a while, until you’re ready to bend over and beg me to fuck you, just like Spikey does. I’ll bet we can find you some other chores to do, too. Vacuuming, maybe. Washing dishes.”

Angel stopped raging and became very quiet. He was always at his angriest and most dangerous like that, Spike knew. But Master hummed some stupid tune and left the room, snapping his fingers at Spike to follow. As Spike scrambled to his feet, he dared to look at Angel, hoping some understanding of their situation would pass between them. But Angel only glared back with pure, murderous rage.

  
[Chapter Seven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/193694.html)

 

 

 

 

  



	7. </strong> Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[parallax](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/parallax), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
**Title:** Parallax  
**Chapter:** 7/8  
**Characters:** Spike, Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** Dub-con, angst  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.  
**A/N:** Thank you to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for another awesome banner!  Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/profile)[**plot_wout_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/) . 

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Parallax&filter=all).

_   
**Parallax (7/8)**   
_

**  
Seven  
**

 

For some time—days? weeks? Spike had stopped keeping track—he saw little of Angel. Most days he saw him only once, when Master brought Spike in there to give Angel a packet of blood. Master made Spike hand it over, and sometimes he was a bit slow and Angel managed to grab hold of him through the bars; but Master was underfeeding Angel and he wasn’t at full strength, so Spike could get away with only minor bruising.

Usually Master would use Spike after that, buggering him or shoving his dick in Spike’s mouth so that Angel had to watch. Even if Angel curled up at the bottom of his cage and shut his eyes, which he often did, he was able to hear them and smell them.

Spike didn’t know if Master was working his mojo on Angel yet, getting Angel to crave him. Certainly Angel didn’t seem any happier about his situation than he had been at the beginning, and no more inclined to want to please Master. He didn’t speak to either of them. Just glowered, or pretended to ignore them completely. None of this seemed to bother Master, who was whistling and cheerful. Spike had the impression the bloke was working on his next acquisition, but Spike had no idea what that might be. Master was on his computer a lot.

And then one late afternoon, as Spike was dusting the living room, Master came walking through from the kitchen. He was wearing a sharp suit and a yellow tie. “Going out,” he said as he passed. “Stay away from Angel.”

Spike waited ten minutes. He wanted to make certain Master was truly gone, but of course he had no way to know how quickly he would return. He was not likely popping out to the grocers dressed like that, but then he was a strange man and not very predictable. As soon as Spike determined it was safe, he dropped the dust rag and sprinted up the stairs.

Now, Master had told him to stay away. But he hadn’t specified how far away. He hadn’t told Spike to stay out of the room entirely, for instance. To his enormous relief, Spike found himself capable of entering Angel’s room, and of sidling along the wall towards the cupboard.

Angel was lying on the floor. He looked smaller, somehow, diminished, and not just from the lack of feed. His eyes were deep-set and hooded, and they tracked Spike’s movements around the room. Just as Spike reached the cupboard door, Angel spoke. His voice was whispery and paper-thin. “Do you really hate me this much, William?”

Spike moved his lips, trying to explain the magic and the compulsion, trying to tell Angel that although his feelings about his grandsire were complex and many-faceted, they didn’t include hatred. But no sound would come out, not so much as a groan, and in the end Spike only shook his head slowly and opened the cupboard door.

His clothing was exactly where Master had left it, with his duster right on top. Spike stroked the familiar leather lovingly, just once, and reached into the pocket. He pulled out the brown leather phone book. With a last, sorrowful look at Angel—who’d turned around so his back was facing Spike now—Spike left the room.

Master generally used his mobile phone, which of course he’d taken with him, but he still had a landline in service. Spike picked up the phone in the kitchen, where he’d be able to ring off quickly should Master return, opened the book to the right page, and punched the buttons.

The call connected immediately. The latent Victorian in Spike still marveled that he could ring someone in London and the conversation would be as clear as if they were standing next to each other. After three rings, a slightly breathless voice said, “Hello?”

Spike swallowed. “Red?”

There was a long pause. “Who’s this?”

“Erm, is this Willow?”

“Hey, you dialed me, mister. You tell me who you are first.”

“It’s Spike. Erm, the vampire Spike.” He felt like a complete berk. “You know, devastatingly handsome, sharp wit. Please, I haven’t much time. I need your help.”

After another long pause, she said, “You can’t be Spike. He’s dead. Completely dead, I mean.”

“Well, not so much, actually. I was only temporarily finally dead, as it turned out.”

She seemed to digest that for a moment. “How do I know it’s really you, and not some kind of impostor?”

He closed his eyes and thought frantically. “That time—right after those wankers shoved the chip in my head—I came to your dorm and tried to bite you, but I couldn’t. And you blamed yourself, but I told you I wanted to bite you ever since I saw you with that fuzzy pink number—”

“Stop! Okay, got it. You’re the real deal. But how? And— Oh! Does Buffy know?”

“It’s…it’s a very long story and no, she doesn’t. But I haven’t time for it now. Please, I need your help.”

“That’s twice you’ve said please. You must really be in a pickle.”

He laughed bitterly. “You could say that.” And then, as quickly as he could, he told her what had happened. She gasped and made appropriately horrified noises as he spoke, which was slightly gratifying, at least. When his tale was done, he said, “So? Tell me you can do something.”

“Um…that’s dark magic. I try to stay away from dark magics these days. You know, after the whole ending the world fling and all. But I’ll do my best, okay? I could tell Buffy and—”

“No! She can’t do anything about the talisman. If she comes here, I’ll end up fighting her to protect Master. And perhaps he’ll decide he wants to own a Slayer, too. Don’t tell her.”

“All right.” She sounded uncertain, but he reckoned she’d keep her word. “I’ll get on it right away, get cracking with the research.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to ring you again.”

“If I figure something out, I’ll find a way to let you know.”

“Cheers, love.”

He hung up the phone feeling only slightly less despairing than he had before.

 

***

 

Nothing happened. Not for perhaps two weeks. Angel barely moved out of the tight ball in which he kept himself curled. He’d drink the blood he was given, but only because he had no choice. A vampire might choose to drink from animals rather than humans, but even a vampire with a soul couldn’t deny the demon’s demands entirely. The hunger was too strong. So Angel drank his meager ration but otherwise showed few signs of unlife.

Master was completely unperturbed. Spike realized rather belatedly that Master was using a different tactic on Angel, perhaps for his own entertainment. He wanted to break his new toy even before he began using the talisman. Spike was fairly certain Master wouldn’t succeed, at least not easily. After all, Angel had survived hell and recovered within months. A tiny cage in a sociopath’s mansion might be miserable, but it wasn’t hell.

Master left Spike and Angel alone in the house more often now, sometimes for several hours at a time. But Spike was still forbidden from going near his grandsire, and in any case there would have been nothing he could have done to make the situation better. He did consider ringing Willow again, but he was concerned that Master would notice the calls on his phone bill.

And then one morning Spike had a dream. He didn’t dream often, and when he did, they were usually unpleasant. But this one was nice. He was in Sunnydale, in that stranger’s house where he and Buffy had spent the night together shortly before the battle. He had the same feeling he had then—a bit of fear, overshadowed by the quiet joy of knowing that Buffy trusted him, that she thought he was important, that he could comfort her and she would make him her champion. He’d known then that he wouldn’t survive the upcoming fight—champions were meant to be sacrificed, and magic jewelry was never a good thing. But he’d been content. Fulfilled.

There was no Buffy in the dream, however. Instead, the bedroom door opened and Willow walked in. She looked a bit older than when he’d seen her last, her face showing some of the trauma she’d survived, but she was still pretty, and she carried herself now with a confidence that made her quite beautiful. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a lime green t-shirt, and her hair was short, curling slightly about her cheeks.

“Wow,” she said, looking about. “This is your happy place? I was expecting something more…crypty.”

“My happy place?” he said.

“Well, yeah. ‘Cause dream sendings are kinda tricky—and I never tried one with a vampire before, so that’s new—and I thought this might be more comfortable for you than the Beyond. The Beyond’s not so bad once you get used to it, but at first it’s a little creepy. It’s not regular dimensional space, you know. It’s kinda…bendy.”

He didn’t have any idea what she was going on about, but decided it didn’t matter. “Is this real, then?”

“Well, it’s still your dream, but I’m really in it.”

He leapt up from the bed where he’d been sitting, and grabbed her shoulders. “Have you sussed out the mojo?” he asked her urgently.

She gave him a small smile and patted his arm a bit awkwardly. “Yeah, I think so. And it’s really nasty stuff, too. Mucho dark.”

“Yeah, got that. How do I stop it?”

“You can’t destroy the talisman. I think maybe my coven could, if we all worked together and we were really careful, but one lone vampire? No way. You’d just end up getting zapped if you tried. Probably take out half of LA, too. It’d be like a bomb going off.”

His hands were still on her shoulders, and he clutched tighter, so much that she flinched a bit, but she didn’t move away. “What _can_ I do?” He was well aware of how plaintive he sounded, how desperate, and he didn’t bloody care.

“You can trade for it.”

He made a horrible sound deep in his throat and turned away. With his back to her, he said, “_Trade_? Mas—He won’t trade it to me. And I’ve nothing to give for it anyway. He already owns me.”

She put a warm hand on his back, which is when he noticed that he was naked even in the dream. He hunched in on himself and covered his face with his hands.

Softly, she said, “The trade doesn’t have to be done willingly, Spike. You just have to give him something that would be valuable to him and then you can take the talisman in return.”

“Told you. I have nothing.” And then a horrible realization hit him. In the barest of whispers, he rasped, “My soul. I can give him my soul.”

“No!” Willow exclaimed, and despite himself, relief poured through him. “Not your soul. Besides, I don’t think it’d be worth much to him. He didn’t even care about his own, did he?”

His face still hidden, Spike shook his head.

“Sweetie, it doesn’t need to be something that’s important to you, just something he’d want.”

The laugh that escaped from his throat sounded insane. “What do you get for the bloke who has everything?”

“I can tell Buffy and Giles and Xander, if you want. Maybe they can figure something out. Or…or Angel’s friends in LA?”

“I’ll kill them if they show up here,” he said, very matter-of-fact because he knew it was true.

Her hand moved from the center of his back, and instead she wrapped an arm about him. He wanted to squirm around in her embrace, to sob onto her shoulder, to be held and comforted. Instead, he stepped away.

He heard her sigh. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a week. If you haven’t figured out a way to trade by then, I’m gonna tell Buffy.”

“No!”

“Spike, I can’t just leave you two there. It’s not right. And if Buffy ever found out she’d murder me.”

It was Spike’s turn to sigh. “Give me a week, yeah? And tell them…if they come, tell them to stake me straightaway. Don’t…don’t try to save me.” Not that they'd be likely to do so, most of them anyway. And some of them would probably be thrilled to finally end him, actually.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, and she once again came up close and gave him a squeeze. “It’ll all work out somehow.”

He didn’t share her optimism. But he nodded and she stepped away. “I have to go. Dream sendings are pretty draining. Do you want me to leave you here for a little while, though? You can just kinda…rest.” She did that California thing, where her inflection went up at the end of the last sentence, turning a statement into a question.

“Ta,” he mumbled.

She squeezed him once more, and then he was alone.

He made his way to the bed and lay down on it. If he buried his face in the pillow, he discovered, he could catch just the ghost of Buffy’s scent. He clutched the bedding to himself like a drowning man might clutch a life buoy.

  
[Chapter Eight](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/193910.html)

 


	8. </strong> Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[parallax](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/parallax), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
**Title:** Parallax  
**Chapter:** 8/8  
**Characters:** Spike, Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** Dub-con, angst  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.  
**A/N:** Thank you to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  for another awesome banner!  Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/profile)[**plot_wout_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/plot_wout_porn/) . 

**Thank you for reading! As always, comments, feedback, and concrit are cherished.**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Parallax&filter=all).

_   
**Parallax (8/8)**   
_

**  
Eight  
**

 

For five days, Spike wished desperately that he could be back in his dream, where he’d felt safe and nearly at peace. Where he’d remembered how it was to feel like a man again, perhaps even a man of worth.

But he was in Master’s house, and he was nothing but a frivolous toy. Worst of all was his knowledge that the entire situation was his own bloody fault. None of this would have happened if he’d stayed away from Master to begin with, if he hadn’t foolishly believed that someone might want to be his friend.

So he cleaned and he fetched things, and he obediently opened his mouth or bent over, and he watched his grandsire diminish day by day, and there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.

And then, on the fifth day, Master was in a talkative mood. “Angel’s not much fun anymore, is he?” he said, ruffling Spike’s hair and watching an advert on the telly for shaving cream. “I’m thinking it’s about time to move things along. I have this image in my head of the two of you, both dressed in tight leather pants and nothing else, with little chains around your necks. And we’re going clubbing—well, some human places, but also The Spit, I think. Demon hang-outs. And you two kneel beside me, all pretty and…servile. That’s a pretty picture, don’t you think?”

Luckily, he didn’t seem to expect Spike to answer.

“I have some friends who might like to…admire…my things, too. Maybe I should have a party…. Yes! That’s a great idea!” He leapt to his feet and began to pace back and forth. “I could get some really major VIPs to come. Not here, though. Somewhere really…. Hmm. The Getty, maybe? No.”

He stopped moving back and forth, and stared at Spike. “Vampires. Maybe somewhere with a sort of appropriately demony atmosphere.” He snapped his fingers. “Forest Lawn! Of course! Outside the Old North Church, maybe. I wonder what it looks like at night….” Without another word, he strode out of the room. Spike heard the door to the garage slam and then, faintly, the engine of Master’s BMW start up.

Spike still had two more days before Willow told Buffy what was going on. But he hadn’t had any brilliant ideas since he’d spoken with her, and he knew none were going to come to him now. He couldn’t abide the thought of Buffy and the Scoobies arriving here and having to fight him. He wouldn’t mind if it were Buffy who finally dusted him—being done in by a Slayer, and that Slayer specifically, seemed quite fitting for him. But what if she hesitated a bit and he killed her first? Or what if he killed one of her friends? He was her bloody Champion, and he didn’t fancy his last act being so harmful to the woman he’d once loved.

But there was a way around that. He could ring Lilia or Rudy right now and tell them where he was. Let them have at him. Not that he especially wanted to kill them either, but at least better them than Buffy and her friends. And Angel’s lot wouldn’t hesitate at all to attack him, so perhaps they stood a better chance.

Spike had never rung any of Angel’s people before and he didn’t know their numbers. He hoped that Angel had them in his phone book. So for what Spike hoped was the last time, he made his way upstairs and into Angel’s room.

Angel was curled in a tight ball on his side, with his back to the door. Every one of his vertebrae stood out sharply. “Liam,” Spike said quietly, but that was all he could manage, and Angel didn’t even twitch. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing Spike could say would make it any better. Spike opened the cupboard and knelt in front of the small pile of clothing. This time, he lifted the duster in his arms and buried his nose in it. Then, with a furtive glance over his shoulder, he did the same with Angel’s shirt.

A dead heart cannot break, he told himself.

He put the clothes back down and reached into his duster pocket for the little brown book. But as he did so, his fingers brushed against something unexpected, something small and hard and a bit bumpy. Puzzled, he drew the object out.

Oh. It was the golden bee, the little bauble he’d found up in the Hyperion’s top floor, what seemed like years ago. He cradled the pin in his hand, wondering who it had belonged to and how it had come to be lost up there. Surely someone must have missed it—it was finely made and encrusted with jewels and likely quite valuable.

Valuable.

“Bloody _hell_,” Spike murmured, and then he jumped to his feet and ran out of the room, down the hall, and to the tiny room where Master kept the talisman. Spike opened that door cautiously, but the room was exactly as he’d seen it last.

He didn’t know whether the bee would be enough. It certainly wasn’t worth as much as a soul. But it was beautiful and precious and possibly quite old. Something a bloke like Master might appreciate. It was all Spike had.

If this didn’t work, Spike would be zapped with agony and paralyzed, and Master would go on with his plans, and soon Buffy and the rest of the cavalry would show up. But most of that would happen anyway, so what did he have to lose?

He wished he knew something to pray to, something that might heed the pleas of a repentant vampire.

With firm steps, Spike approached the pedestal. Moving his fingers carefully, so as not to touch the obsidian cube, Spike lay the bee on top of the polished wood of the pedestal, right along the edge. “For you, Master. A trade,” he said. Then, with a deep breath, he reached for the talisman.

Nothing happened. He wasn’t wracked with pain and he didn’t fall to the floor, unmoving. Instead, his fingers pressed against the smooth, black surface. The talisman was cold, like ice. Spike lifted it and brought it near his face, then turned it over in his hands. There was nothing remarkable about it; just six identical sides of dark glass. Had he been human, he would have seen his reflection in them. He wondered what he’d look like. His hair had grown quite long and hung in curls almost to his shoulders. He reckoned that there must be several inches of light brown showing now above the bleached blond. He must look a right prat, he thought, and smiled bitterly at his own joke.

And then, quite suddenly, something released in his head. It felt a bit like when he’d traveled over mountains and his ears had popped, but this involved his entire brain. It was if he’d been gradually subjected to a relentless pressure, and now the pressure had suddenly been released. The relief was so great and so fast that he fell to his knees, only barely managing to avoid dropping the talisman, and he roared out a mixture of triumph and fury and sorrow.

It was ages before he trusted his legs to hold him again.

When he could walk, he made his way to Angel’s room. Angel hadn’t moved. Surely he had heard Spike’s cry, but he was perhaps too broken to react or maybe he thought it was another of Master’s games.

Spike shoved the talisman into his duster. He threw his own clothing on very quickly and then walked to the chest of drawers where the key still lay, undisturbed in the thin layer of dust.

Spike unlocked the cage and opened the door.

Angel didn’t move.

“You can go whenever you’re ready,” Spike said. “I’ll send Lilia and the others here to fetch you. I don’t…I don’t even know if you’re listening. But I want you to know…. Christ. I’m sorry. You’ll never believe me, but it’s true. I didn’t mean…well, doesn’t matter, does it? I’m sorry.”

He meant to go downstairs and ring Lilia and wait for Mas—for Trevor. But even as he turned around, he heard footsteps in the hall—running footsteps—and there was Trevor Batt himself, flushed with rage.

“What the fuck have you done?” Trevor screamed.

Spike didn’t even get a chance to respond before Trevor launched himself, his teeth bared in a snarl, his outstretched hands ready to wrap about Spike’s neck.

But Spike was a demon, and he was free.

With a bellow of his own, Spike shifted his face. As Trevor closed the space between them, Spike grabbed at the larger man’s shoulders and dragged him nearer, into a parody of an embrace. Then he sank his fangs into Trevor’s throat.

It had been a very long time since Spike had bitten a human. The rich, hot blood flooded his mouth and slipped sweetly down his throat. Trevor screeched and tried to pull away, but Spike held him fast. He wasn’t careful about this bite—he ripped through skin and muscle and veins, he tore at the wound like a fighting dog—and he growled and he fed and he fed. When Trevor’s knees buckled, Spike held the man upright against himself almost like a lover, and he continued to drink until his prey’s heartbeat slowed, and then stuttered, and then stilled.

Spike dropped the lifeless corpse onto the blood-spattered carpet. Trevor’s eyes were still open. He looked surprised. Spike wondered where he was now, and whether he was finally regretting having bartered away his soul. The murder that Spike had just committed sat perfectly fine with his own.

He left Angel alone with the dead man. He made a quick detour into the loo to do a fast wash-up, and then made his way down to the kitchen to ring Willow and Lilia.

 

***

He’d meant to leave town completely.

But he couldn’t imagine where to go, so he pawned the small items he’d nicked on his way out of Trevor’s house—a Rolex, diamond and platinum cufflinks—and he rented a rathole of a motel room. He’d taken Trevor’s car as well, because he didn’t want his Valiant any longer, not now that Trevor had it fixed up, and he sold the BMW to a bloke he knew who wasn’t especially particular about proof of ownership. So he had enough dosh to last him a bit and there was a butcher who would sell him animal blood, so he was set.

Mostly he stayed in his dirty room, staring at the obsidian cube. Considering the possibilities.

Nearly three weeks after he’d killed Trevor Batt, Spike picked up the phone. He’d memorized the number by now.

“Spike! Goddess, where _are_ you?”

“City of Angels.”

“Everyone’s been searching—”

“Yeah, I’ll wager they have.” Angel first among them, he was certain, looking to avenge Spike’s treachery and recent homicide.

“Spike, what are you—”

“Look, love, I didn’t ring you to natter. What you said, about you and your witchy pals destroying the talisman, do you still reckon you could do it?”

“Um, sure. It’d be pretty tricky, but it’d be a good way to practice—”

“How do I get it to you, then?”

There was a long pause. “It’s yours now. Don’t you want—”

“No. No human should be trusted with a thing like this, and certainly no demon. Certainly not me.”

“Okay. I’ll…I’ll come and get it.”

Half an hour later, she appeared in his motel room with a loud bang and the scent of England. Even though he was expecting her, he couldn’t help but startle violently, and fling himself toward the door. Which would have done him little good in any case, as it was four in the afternoon and glaringly bright out.

“Hi, Spike,” she said, smoothing down her blouse and tucking her hair behind her ears.

He slumped slightly. “Red. That’s quite an entrance.”

“Yeah, and when I get back I’m gonna have to sleep for like a week, ‘cause my gas tank’s gonna be on E. But it beats flying coach.”

He nodded and peeled himself away from the wall.

She tilted her head at him. “You know, Angel’s been looking for you.”

“Yeah, you said.”

“And Buffy. She, uh, kinda found out about the whole…” she flapped her hands, “thing.”

His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “Lovely,” he said, and was pleased when his voice didn’t break.

“They want to—”

“I _know _what they want to. But I don’t want to talk about the Slayer or the pouf.”

 She frowned. “Are you all right? What that man did to you—”

“’M fine,” he said, and hoped she hadn’t notice the way he flinched. “Look, the knickknack’s over there. If you could just take it away now….”

She looked at the talisman that sat on the bed, but didn’t make a move to take it. “I have to trade you for it, remember? Or else—zap!”

“Oh, just take the bloody thing. It’s yours. I don’t want it.”

She shrugged. “Rules of magic, sweetie. I have to give you something valuable.”

“There’s nothing I want!” he yelled, and then felt bad, because none of this was her fault.

But she didn’t appear upset by his outburst. “I’m trading you a favor, Spike.”

“A favor? You’ve already done me plenty. You’re doing one now.”

She shook her head. “No. It has to be something new. But…don’t worry. It’s taken care of. Deal?”

He nodded wearily. “’T’s fine.”

She smiled at him and picked up the talisman. She looked at it curiously for a moment, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and tucked it into a little pouch she wore around her neck. “We’ll smoosh it as soon as my magics are back up to snuff.”

He nodded, and felt an enormous relief. “Thank you.”

“Take care of yourself, sweetie,” she said, as if she really meant it. Then there was another loud bang, and she was gone.

 

***

 

Spike was trapped like an insect in amber. The tiniest movement took enormous effort, and he certainly couldn’t manage to get up and find something to eat. He just lay on the lumpy motel bed, unfocussed eyes pointed at the television screen. Not waiting, because there was nothing to wait for. Just stuck.

He felt himself growing gaunt and weak, and wondered whether he would enter a coma before his prepaid nights ran out, and if so, what the motel manager would do about it. But it was a vague, academic sort of question, like wondering whether the sun was going to go supernova in a billion years.

So when a knock sounded on his door he ignored it, even when it grew louder and more urgent. But then the door burst inward, the flimsy locks giving like paper, and Spike had the strength only to roll to the floor between the bed and the wall.

“Spike!”

Oh, bloody hell. Well, might as well get this over with, he thought. With considerable effort, he climbed back onto the mattress and collapsed there, panting as if he’d run a marathon, his muscles trembling from the effort.

“Jesus Christ, Spike, you look like hell.”

“Cheers,” Spike said, his voice thin from lack of use.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just get on with it.” And he rolled onto his back and spread his arms wide, bracing himself a bit for the feeling of wood digging into his chest. He shut his eyes.

And nothing happened.

He cracked his lids open to see Angel looming over him, frowning. But there was no stake in his hands. “You haven’t been feeding,” Angel finally said.

“So? That’ll make your job easier, won’t it? Won’t have to worry about me kicking your arse.”

“My job? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Now Spike was confused. “Dusting me, of course, pillock.”

Angel rolled his eyes theatrically and then sat down heavily on the bed, shaking it with his weight. “I didn’t come here to dust you.”

“Then why? And how did you find me, anyhow?”

Angel looked uncomfortable. “Willow called. We—”

“She told you where I was?” Spike didn’t know why he was surprised at that. It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve that sort of betrayal.

“Yeah. And she sent you a message, too. She said to tell you the talisman’s been destroyed.”

Spike found the energy to cock an eyebrow. “You’re the witch’s messenger boy now?”

Angel didn’t answer at first. He picked up the edge of the ugly duvet and rolled it absently between his fingers. An advert came on the telly, loud and obnoxious, and Spike shakily moved his arm over to the remote and clicked it off. Finally, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, Angel said, “I believe you.”

“What?”

More loudly, Angel said, “I believe you. You said you were sorry and I believe you.”

Spike’s mouth fell open, then he shut it with a snap.

Angel went on, still looking down at the blanket, not meeting Spike’s eyes. “I was so furious with you—”

“For taking you there.”

“For allowing him to use you that way!”

Perhaps Spike’s starved mind was slow, but he couldn’t imagine why Angel would care who used him or how. “I don’t—”

But Angel leapt to his feet as if he’d been stung, and he stalked to the far corner of the room and stood there with his back to Spike. “Willow…she yelled at me. A lot. She told me what that bastard did to you, with the talisman. How he made you do those things. And…how you tried to stop it.” In a tiny voice, he added, “How you were going to sacrifice yourself so I could be rescued.”

“Oh,” was all Spike could say.

Angel spun around and marched back to the bed and glared at Spike. “Why the hell did you allow yourself to get close to that guy? Even you are not usually that stupid.”

Spike was too worn down to put up any defenses, too tired for anything but the truth. “I thought he was my friend,” he said and curled onto his side, his back to Angel.

After a moment, the mattress dipped as Angel sat again. A big hand landed on Spike’s shoulder and he flinched. The hand moved away immediately but then, after a brief hesitation, returned. “You have friends, Spike. Real friends.”

Spike’s laugh sounded more like a sob. “No, mate. I haven’t.”

“You have—I kinda thought we were friends, actually.”

Spike twisted around to stare at him incredulously. “How? You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You do. You’ve…tolerated me, I expect due to that great broody conscience of yours. But you don’t—” He stopped, because the next phrase would have been “want me” and he just couldn’t say that.

Angel sighed. “You’re such a moron, Spike. You’re…you’re important to me, okay? You’re cocky and irritating as hell, but you’re strong and brave and nobody will ever understand me like you do. You’re family, okay? The only family I have.”

Spike was gaping again. “You can’t stand me,” he finally managed to say.

Angel shook his head. “No, it’s you who can’t stand me.”

“Then why the bloody hell have I stayed with you all this time? I’ve never left you, Liam, never, except when I had to to save Dru. Even then, I would have stayed if you weren’t being so bloody daft.”

To his surprise, Angel chuckled. “We’ve been going at it since the day you were turned, haven’t we? Each of us expecting the worst of the other. But you’re right—you’ve been there when I needed it. It’s family, William. Just because we beat each other up doesn’t mean we don’t care.”

Spike had a sudden memory of the way Buffy and Dawn used to squabble and spit at one another, and he nodded slowly.

Angel’s hand landed on him again, this time on his wrist. This time, Spike didn’t flinch.

“I thought you were hanging around me just because you liked giving me a hard time,” Angel said. “It took—well, all that yelling from Willow I mentioned. And then Buffy called too.” He shuddered slightly. “They reminded me that you’re a hero. They made me think maybe…maybe I wasn’t seeing you clearly.”

It took all his remaining strength, but Spike pushed himself upright to a seated position, and he looked directly into Angel’s eyes. “What do you see now?” he asked.

“A hero. A friend. A brother. A…a loved one.”

Spike stopped breathing.

Angel reached over and tugged lightly at Spike’s hair. “That was a whole lot of gut spilling. Come on. Let’s get you some blood and a pair of scissors. I’ll even find you some bleach so your hair can go back to glowing in the dark. Come home, Spike.”

The corner of Spike’s mouth quirked a bit. “You’re going to have to carry me.”

Angel’s smile was broad and joyful. “I’ve been carrying you for years,” he said with eyes sparkling.

“You could use the exercise, with that fat arse.”

“Idiot,” Angel said, standing and scooping Spike into his arms.

“Berk,” responded Spike as he leaned his head against his grandsire’s broad chest and sighed with contentment. He closed his eyes and mumbled, “You can buy me a car tomorrow. Think I’d fancy a ’59 Sport Fury.” Just before he fell asleep, he felt Angel’s laughter rumbling against him.

 

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